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University of Illinois Library 


L161—H41 


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FACING FORWARD 


POEMS OF COURAGE 


COLLECTED BY 


JOSEPH MORRIS 
AND 
ST. CLAIR ADAMS 


COMPILERS OF “IT CAN BE DONE” 


NEW YORK 
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY 


| CopyricHr, 1925, BY : 
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY _ 


; i 5 , 


‘ COWS, vey 
‘ Te 
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| PRINTED INU. 


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FOREWORD 


HE editors and the publisher of IT CAN BE DONE 
‘ have of course been gratified with the enthusiastic 
reception extended that volume. Not only have the con- 
‘stant accessions of readers kept the pressmen busy with 
_ printing after printing, but the new readers and the old 
» alike have asked for more material of the same general 
*. kind. FACING FORWARD in consequence appears as 
~) a companion volume to IT CAN BE DONE. Without 
duplicating a single selection, it yet chooses a theme closely 
allied to that of the earlier volume and takes up the work 
where its predecessor left off. Inspiration is the motive 
force that sets the machinery of human enterprise going. 
But if the enterprise is to be sustained, is to be pushed 
through difficulties to tangible accomplishment, the sup- 
plementary force of courage must be brought into play. 
“As inspiration therefore was the keyword of the earlier 
“anthology, courage is the keyword of this. 
Momentous though the theme may be, the approach to 
-it is not sombre. Nothing is so splendid, amid serious 
“surroundings, as the electric relief of a hearty laugh. The 
editors therefore, both in selecting their material and in 
~making their comments upon it, have given due place to 
the element of humor. 
-. Had any of the large aspects of IT CAN BE DONE 
-been widely condemned or indifferently received, some 
modification in plan might well have been contemplated 
*for the present volume. The response of the public being 
jwhat it was, readers have a right to expect that the fea- 
“tures of the earlier compilation will be retained in this. 
_-The editors see no reason to disappoint them. First of 
“~all, therefore, the poems selected are of somewhat varied 


to 


iil 


quality. A good many of them are established classics 
whose rank as literature not the most fastidious critic 
would question. Many are frankly of less literary merit 
yet deserve inclusion because of their wide and perennial 
appeal. Moreover introductions are again provided for 
exactly the same reason an organist employs a prelude; 
they suggest a mood and constitute an approach. Finally, 
because a reader feels an interest in the author of any- 
thing which attracts him, the life of each poet represented 
in the volume is briefly summarized in the back of the 
book. 
By adhering to these principles and methods the editors 
have sought to make FACING FORWARD a worthy 
companion to IT CAN BE DONE. They believe it will 
be found to express aspirations of the human heart, and 
to bring to the reader those reinforcements of faith and 
valor which enable purpose to merge into achievement. 
They take pleasure in acknowledging the generosity of 
authors and publishers who have granted them the use of 
copyright material. 


iv 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
Patt CS ALI cr ele fone ke es Sir Henry Newbolt.... 214 
PRIS Nee OES ee Sais acoalk’s St. Clar Adams....... 161 
OE EOC Ss ARR dis ae Ono DAI OIG a ates: 99 
BI eve ny i os whore ta sthre John Kendrick Bangs.. 119 
penuimons (ira. a. ee Ella Wheeler Wilcox... 165 
Ambitious Oyster, The..... Joseph Morris.........+ 156 
Ballade of the Gamefish....Grantland Rice........ 230 
Barbara Frietchie.......... John Greenleaf Whittier 108 
ato-wire-Dill. 2) i... os sas Robert W. Services... 22 
Dattle-Hield; ‘They... .. 3... William Cullen Bryant. 34 
Bearing Sorrow...........James Thomson....... 81 
Bear Up a While..........James Thomson....... 119 
Becoming a Man.......... Strickland Gillilan..... 187 
Best’ oj veliers 2 es: Frank L. Stanton...... 211 
PI TUCO T IC Os wrath e Ge, 3 Maltbie D. Babcock.... 3 
BatAVe, BENE ie uts tare as be Nicholas Rowe........ 215 
rave wan he soe oe Joanna Baillie......... 31 
Bravest Battle, The...... Joaquin Miller........ 26 
Breaker and Maker........ Grantland Rice........ 127 
Breathes There a Man..... Sm Walter Scotto ess 57 
Broken Pinion, The........ Hezekiah Butterworth.. 39 
Bruce and the Spider...... Bernard Barton ...... 100 
Build a Little Fence....... ANONYMOUS 6... 00000 74 
LS SCN adie Ean oe One ae St. Clair Adams....... 78 
BUILT relied ai taser ocd ot DSPN ICING Ente Gita he 212 
Captain’s Daughter, The... .James T. Fields....... | 86 
Beet OENTICAY iss 's\crats es oie 's Felicia Dorothea He- 
NAILS. 0's sake oe ole wie le ese 132 
Certain Victory, The....... Dy, eet INAS EV Teta rere, sos 189 
EN NSS ey u a Saisie pay Louis Untermeyer..... 147 
Charge of the Light Brigade, 

OSE RG a ae Ro Alfred Tennyson...... 130 
UR eh aha ey onl (se a's John Kendrick Bangs... 225 
PRPDERSALION oo oa aps\s «cise 6 « Theodosia Garrison..... 69 
ME MRIOALLGLTL Ys 5) Ulises e's wis as of. Clair Adams... i... 46 


v 


Conqueror) Uhevs yeu Grantland Rice........ 220 
Conquering Fates ica aie Sarah K. Bolton...... 181 
CONTENT MeN oes ie ieee alae Wilham Shakespeare... 153 
CONTENTMENT vec) donne ele ate Eugene Field......... 5 
COUTACR MANN OA raed keine Ben: Lonsons. (san ee 210 
COUTAI Es oh rre cenit heaters Lous Lavater......... 121 
Clolirare is Vania ay witers Ella Fuller Maitland... 121 
Courage: fits). Petes A Ayy th Bryan Waller Procter.. 144 
GPISES. RRA atl he elie ae Joseph Morris.........- 5I 
Curfew Bell, "The ooc, Wile: Rose Hartwick Thorpe. 158 
Dav Bestar rand: oe ste Pie Daly. en ae 148 
IDESEE Ten Re. pic, Lowen magi Edward Rowland Sill.. 89 
Difference Sc neon cry se St) Clar Adams... 74 
Dodeins Troubles ncaa José pncMorvis. i)... ia 114 
“Don't Care” ‘and: “Never 
LITA ee OS a eae John Kendrick Bangs.. 216 
Doors'of Daring Give. ee Henry van Dyke....... 68 
Dreams ‘heads Deis eeu. Edunn Carlisle Litsey.. 154 
Drop Your Bucket Where 
ent Arey 0a. a kana Sam Walter Foss...... 219 
iindiess: Battle: The vioG. Berton Braley......... 93 
Byes. 8)) aa a ae a Lord: BYVOn i. Osis ewes I4I 
Epilogue to Asolando...... Robert Browning...... 125 
PUR CELSIOTH as Uap ie ima asia Henry Wadsworth Long- 
PELLOD ashe ale Ae 90 
Existence May Be Borne...Lord Byron,.......... 83 
Hrailures.) Che. cave Theodosia Garrison.... 185 
Fellow Who Had Done His 
PROSE 6s AT Re CN a, Frank L. Stanton...... 184 
Finnigin to Flannigan...... Strickland Gillilan..... 44 
IOP CATATICO Os, Wn wa ania Ralph Waldo Emerson. 95 
HOPPIVONESS ruin k iy oe bulalene John Greenleaf Whittier 53 
TROT AV ACO SAM shu ve est Seta Sarah Chauncey Wool- 
SOY i eh oia ers they ee 223 
POutd eal Clover Mei ak ANONWINOUS 00!) se caine 174 


vi 


Glance at History, A....... Walt Mason.......... 31 
Glove and the Lions, The. ..Lewgh Hunt... 0.0... 146 
God’s Will for You and Me.. Anonymous .......... 79 
MR PAOR MENTE hore (dveie)s'y'e Mipein's Lord BYTOM onivias le 123 
SSSR MENT 9's a: ce, 0507 date Rudyard Kipling...... 208 
eS) OC ahs a Or a Robert Burns sibs eid 231 
PUCATUAIR ESE ic 0's, 52 cie'sie o's nies h LLOnTY 1 QVLOR Nia wie 53 
RV TINATICG 5. Sct wate saith Frank L. Stanton...... 50 
iideen ‘otrength.. 2 ey se. Joseph Addison....... 137 
His Worst Enemy......... William Rose Benét.... 136 
Cosel) Gk) Qe Sle ot eS Pia Edward Young........ 52 
If I Should Die To-Night..Belle E. Smith........ 71 
If I Were a Man, a Young 

Bes ico iss ja ars, etic eras Ella Wheeler Wilcox... 36 
Prk Veere a. VOICE: 230. Charles Mackay....... 76 
me One ras Fatleds . 4.00. William J. Lampton... 77 
PV RSTO ce Obie che asuistaue’d May Riley Smith...... 54 
If You Have a Friend..... ARORVINOUS Jew aniniew ais 40 
I Have a Rendezvous with 

BRCM nae erin ct aha SON A EC OEY 4 ine ede 8 
itary US gk las sient FODErE BULBS Wye Wa dele 218 
Immortal Guest, An....... Hannah More......... 102 
In a Friendly Sort o’ Way.. Anonymous .......... 155 
Incident of the French | 

MEAN SOD AEN she sabe k 15) hy Ge Robert Browning...... 180 
In Flanders Fields........ Tohne McCragecc seen 163 
MUMMERS See ool cts te gic daha whet s ANONYMOUS .....00065 45 
MUM ie whe aia ic u's wate Joseph Morris.....0.5. 70 
Brine beginning... s,s. Angela Morgan....... 175 
RPMS ATI oa cs: 0, 0a) 3' Ella Wheeler Wilcox... 4 
BTM E ORG u iL: ooehsias ae Wilham Wetmore Story 205 
ge Vou Be True.) 6. ss. Howard Arnold Walter 33 
BOGOR OURS. sissy Ske vcue's vn Bem IGInG Sith Sec aia ee Paes! 
(ST Ta a Ra LOR ELS 2 CaaS: 116 
OAT WRELOTI! 2 U's 'e shes) e'e Paul Laurence Dunbar. 6 


Vil 


Joy. Calls) fom wor sation tee Edward Young ....00<. 
Just .Whistle'a Bit: ..% 09.4: Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
Keep A-Pluggin’ Away.....Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
Keep a Stiff Upper Lip..... Anonymous ......2... 
Keep A-Eryitig. eas toe Nixon Waterman...... 
Land on Your Feet......:. Sam Walter Foss...... 
Last Days of Herculaneum, 

A TO URN oad gt Ae a Eduin Atherstone..... 
LastiW ord Thee oes Matthew Arnold....... 
Ni cored LANKA dg Wolly > De George Pope Morris... 
Leon C yr Ae een arte Everard Jack Appleton 
Let’ s*Be Braver. venis. eae Edgar A. Guest... aa 
Let Something Good Be 

CAI ya, eenetasne dual Moneta leet James Whitcomb Riley 
PEG PU He Sos ele sake ete) Peete Lord Byron. ..\.). sae 
Tite ciRi eh NCR a ae Joseph Morris.......+. 
Life Is Struggle RO RI esha lis Arthur Hugh Clough.. 
Dates bend. ei fo ny ae Edward Young.:.s 0.06 
Lotter Gattensenc iar eee Francis O. Ticknor.... 
TOG en ea ee nian Edward Everett Hale.. 
Prngen Cie. 6 ie ravers Robert W. Service.... 
LYrICVOL AACHION uns cnet: Paul Hamilton Hayne.. 
Magnolia Cemetery Ode....Henry Timrod........ 
Make Way for Liberty.....James Montgomery.... 
Man Must Want, A....... EdgarsA Guest... cna 
Man Who Brings Up the 

Rear Hind) Ene we irceen Sam Walter Foss...... 
Man Who Thinks He Can, 

A acd eee nA AIL Yeh ANONYMOUS ....eeeeee 
Man with the Hoe, The....Edwin Markham...... 
Matter of Direction, A..... St. Clair Adams....... 
May) it Be Minev sic... John Kendrick Bangs.. 
AVERT One Tie seam mnen yp Dane gtaire William Shakespeare... 
Mother oe Mineei ic snse Rudyard Kipling...... 
Mushroom and the Oak, The Joseph Morris......... 
My Stout Old Heart and I. EB. HOUDGK. <inan eae 


Vili 


PAGE 


199 
176 


105 
142 
221 


I 

18 
195 
I9I 
183 


37 
182 


PEMPOREOR Rte ite eeak oss > William Cowper....... 133 
iw tedsts )1U viatbted «ka peas ape Father, Ryan. co... 04 
Not Understood........... Thomas Bracken...... 188 
Notsyvet,, My soul wo)... 4 Robert Louis Stevenson 92 
GS gle ASS a Aor ae i Adelaide Anne Procter. 75 
APRN EIS oat haa, pee LN LOG Ges Taian os 203 
“NO Word for Fear........ Walter Savage Landor. 91 
MSTA MONT 5562 2) e sesss aes Charlotte Perkins Gil- 
PROVE INE Vie cide a eke 48 
O Captain! My Captain!...Walt Whitman........ 197 
a er Glas chee sly wh William Collins....... 122 
Oh, Why Should the Spirit 
of Mortal Be Proud..... William Knox......... 168 
PUICEPETOUSICES 4. bla.eim +. f.sieie es Oliver Wendell Holmes 166 
SOTO SPB TES sae les DRO AIRS Soe oo, Go John Kendrick Bangs.. 62 
On) His Blindness::.....,:.. John Mulion.... 0.0... I51 
On the Firing Line........ Joaquin Miller........ 135 
On Thinking Glad......... John Kendrick Bangs.. 218 
POMATITIRE MESES 3.) wes sty carte Joseph B. Strauss...... 112 
Other Side of It, “The. . 2.:.. ee LOI AGUINS 0. ox. 98 
Paddle Your Own Canoe...Sarah K. Bolton...... 80 
BE ONSECUICE 0 ota Marvintak ximne Walter Savage Landor. 113 
BPs A. ile rs sees Grantland Rice........ 196 
Wem LO eR ie nai 0 Berto Braley i. hoeg : 118 
Playing Off Base.......... St Clair Adams. 0) 222 
PCL VICW aly civics ecm: oe Mary Sinton Lettch.... 63 
BEORICHORSI 2). ses so, ls aie as Walt Mason.......... 167 
EELS oth a 07) ose o) se on ahr: Louis Untermeyer..... 7 
NORMAN I ea rav 0", X's 2 ‘ohn. Berton Braley......... 27 
Prayer for Courage, A..... Joseph Morris.......+. 226 
Peery cotisis.) hes"... James Russell Lowell... 170 
Bea MIO WALC. 5 oc sel aic'e 85's ANONYMOUS ... 000000. 120 
Pretty Good Schemes...... Wali Mason. eo tole ss 29 
RIPE ABUNATION i ccis tise, c%.5 « Robert Southwell...... 69 
RE SRIOTIALNS os /0/boa Talia es es’ Rudyard Kipling...... 16 
MCtAMALLOE | ATTY, %s 5's c\-%0'> « Henry Rutherford EI- 
LOBOS Bante Wik aah Arte ore 47 


1X 


Renance yore e aieeae Henry van Dyke....... 217 
RESOLVES. Aaa te eee Ella Wheeler Wilcox... 124 
REVOMTIONS 6.0.1) Gisele eteeneee Matthew Arnold....... 145 
Bachesy CCU eee ee Edward Young........ 104 
Rienzi’s Address to the 
FROTANS "Sis sau stecgan Mary Russell Mitford.. 190 
Road): Chest coun, hee Philip M. Raskin...... 59 
ROG IE everote tints tuatatr tote iss bc Angela Morgan....... 60 
Riker Uy pment arenes John Wesley... .\canne 3 
SALI MAM Paneer ets ves ye Gneecie ANONYMOUS ...0000085 192 
Seekersulhe cars Se Don Marquis......... 84 
Berviceii LMG lau Wiest Burges Johnson....... 30 
Sheridan ar Rie. avert. Thomas Buchanan Read 106 
Soliloquy for a Third Act..Christopher Morley.... 128 
OTC DOd yates el tau een a ANONYMOUS «2.60000. 49 
POO LUA Noy tates A Mr wena James Whitcomb Riley. 232 
Song of Gladness, A....... James W. Foley....... 87 
Song of the Camp, The..... Bayard Taylor... as 198 
Sonnet; on: Chillonsvit.aie. Lor) Byrons.. 00. 52 
SOUL) Cl HEA a meme ale eign Nem Joseph Addison ...... 117 
Boul Captains!) nen iene Everard Jack Appleton. 202 
Soul’s Spring Cleaning, The.Sam Walter Foss...... a2 
Speech before Harfleur.....William Shakespeare... 96 
metick 'to'ThG s. Ueiche ea ei teico Edgar A. Guest... ae 9 
PRTEHOtH );/c/d ee tne Ellen M. Huntington 
CrOabES Wee ao 143 
trong, Heartse. oat. eet Lewis Morris......... 35 
SSUICCESS. iain senate rae Na eran i CyiC, Cameron ie scan 113 
(Chet Agvin ae aan eee Sam Walter Foss..... 88 
There Ain’t No Need To...St. Clair Adams....... 129 
They Only Live Who Dare.. Lewis Morris......... 26 
i hinker, Chess nimat oto Berton Braleye..\ eae 10 
hres! Cning ste me ace Blass: Carman. 2). hae 19 
LO a Miatert Gwitl ma iit ele eran William Cullen Bryant. 20 
Po-Day in ica ineeales ANONYMOUS, «2.00 veee- 102 
WOT Vinee aie ideals teh Weikire Lydia Avery Coonley 
‘ Ward). . 0. aa 205 


x 


To His Mother, C.L. M....John Masefield........ 200 
To Know All Is to Forgive 

oN Os eta ae Nixon Waterman...... II5 
peroummeavvell eek. pa Frank L. Sianion...... 193 
SPREE OW Fig esac alaleials Samuel Johnson....... 55 
To the Man Who Fails..... Alfred J. Waterhouse.. 72 
Portne Wien of Kent. ...... Wiliam Wordsworth... 70 
RRB Teale ss) civials v cto a v.8 loyce, Kalmmercooo uve, os 213 
PPCM POISII i he. ee Gs cise ANONYMOUS oe ceeee 178 
ee VNC 0 cis 0 'c's 5 as DEES Paotinen if es 38 
SEER RANE CLIC cis io e)'e!cie so 0° Everard Jack Appleton. 126 
Llu iL (hag st6 aa Theodosia Garrison.... 157 
RE Eaet e Sialy sete Wns a/dra Don Marquis. ®........ 162 
Valiant Redress........... William Shakespeare... 41 
Ft ie] 8) OS aaah ES Wuliam Shakespeare... 21 
Wiking LHTGeS) o's. cise em os DARKEN AG IIS en Lele a 97 
CGR Sor ates. oh yc aly Josiah Gilbert Holland. 201 
Wanted—a Man........... Edmund Clarence Sted- 

LEAs RAL DRL 152 
Washington by the Dela- 

ORR IRN ohare Arh lca Joaqun Muller........ 206 
myeicnwords Ak. ks kee Edmund Vance Cooke.. 83 
Watch Yourself Go By....Strickland Gillilan..... 227 
ERR ES er cnecre shal 5. Samuel Johnson....... IOI 
RS IMUCEC FL /s)h a's o's bsp) > Graniland Rice........ 179 
PvnenxoucAre Old. 2.0)... Wiliam Ernest Henley 120 
Where Ignorance Is Bliss... Thomas Gray......... 85 
Wemere © /ihere’s “a Will 

BEETS GRIP WAV oc se aes «= Pelican COG Wait ws wd 164 
Where There’s a Will 

BEE OSV VAY 2). aiu's\ she oie John Godfrey Saxe.... 224 
Bretetien, LAr .)o wi es so Berton Braley......... 58 
Why Repine, My Friend?..Walter Savage Landor. 13 
Winds of Fate, The....... Ella Wheeler Wilcox... 11 


X1 


Wimmer: The: sontae na Grantland Rice........ 28 
Work for Small Men...... Sam Walter Foss...... 12 
World Is Waiting for You, 

Sey Sa eat aeenter a ene Siti Caleins... yan mae 150 
Nouns and Old wi ne as Charles Kingsley....... 141 


FACING FORWARD 


THE MAN WHO THINKS HE CAN 


Few of us realize the big things we can do until we try. It is 
better to try and to fail than not to make the attempt. From the 
attempt comes growth. The whole development of our lives lies 
in doing things as to the outcome of which we are uncertain. 
The child is afraid of his first somersault until he flops over; 
after that the thing is a “cinch.” Too many of us linger in the 
valleys because the mountains look high. Too many of us stand 
shivering at the edge of the water, and fear to plunge in. The 
world belongs to the man who dares. Rightly so, indeed, for 
cowardice ts incompetence—the timorous procrastinator would 
not know what to do with success if he had it. 


| ie you think you are beaten, you are; 
If you think you dare not, you don’t. 
If you’d like to win, but think you can't, 

It’s almost a cinch you won't. 
If Pek think you'll lose, you’re lost, 

or out in the world we find 

Success begins with a fellow’s will; 

It’s all in the state of mind. 


If you think you’re outclassed, you are; 
You’ve got to think high to rise. 
You’ve got to hustle before 
You can ever win a prize. 
Life’s battles don’t always go 
To the stronger or faster man; 
But soon or late the man who wins 
Is the one who thinks he can. 


Anonymous. 


THE LEGACY 


A man wished to test how far the good-natured compliance of 
an Irish acquaintance would extend. One tempestuous morning 
he remarked: “Well, Flaherty, there isn’t much wind to-day, is 
there?” “No,” agreed the Irishman, “but what there is makes 
mighty good use of itself.’ And so of our courage. Under 
adversity it may shrink until it seems small, but we should see 
that it makes good use of itself. 

HAVE looked my last on joyous youth; days of the 
white dreams gone, 

But I purpose to walk the rest of the way with never a 

longing thought; 
Courage is not of an age nor a time—ever it struggles on, 

Growing in strength and building true on all that the 

past has wrought, 
Then Courage shall go the way with me— 
An heritage—and my legacy! 


I have striven, in vain, for the greater things; for goals 
that my youth desired, 
Hotly following will-o’-the-wisps, born of Fire of Hope; 
But now, in the cool of the quieter day, what if the soul 
be tired? 
Courage will help defeat the ills with which I have yet 
to cope. 
Stripped of my youth, I still may find 
Help in the years I have left behind. 


Leaving the course to the swift and sure, through by-ways 
I will fare, 
Hearing at times the joyous call of the runners upon 
their way, 
Learning, though late, to know the flowers, learning at 
last to care 
For the birds that sing, and the stars at night—the sun- 
filled, wind-swept day! 
Learning that Youth may leave in its place 
A Courage that bears a smiling face. 
Everard Jack Appleton. 


Permission of the Author. 
From ‘‘The Quiet Courage,’’ 
D. Appleton & Co. 


BE STRONG 


A general riding in the direction of the gunfire met a colored 
soldier retreating at top speed. “Halt, there!” bade the officer. 
“Don’t you know a battle is going on in front?” “Yes, suh; I 
knows dat. I’s spreadin’ de news.” Too many of us, when 
strong endeavor is called for, are content to shake our heads or 
to spread the news. 


E strong! 
We are not here to play,—to dream, to drift. 
We have hard work to do and loads to lift. 
Shun not the struggle,—face it: ’tis God’s gift. 


Be strong! 
Say not the days are evil. Who’s to blame? 
And fold the hands and acquiesce,—O shame! 
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s name. 


Be strong! 
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, 
How hard the battle goes, the day how long; 
Faint not,—fight on! To-morrow comes the song. 


Maltbie D. Babcock. 


A RULE 


O all the good you can, 
By all the means you can, 
In all the ways you can, 
In all the places you can, 
At all the times you can, 
To all the people you can, 
As long as ever you can. 


John Wesley. 


AN INSPIRATION 


The plaudits and the trophies are so often bestowed upon 
effrontery and injustice that honesty and right may seem doomed 
to hopeless failure. But everything shuffles into its right place at 
last. “Trust in yourself and what the world calls your illu- 
sions.’ So Longfellow bids us. And Harriet Beecher Stowe, on 
her seventieth birthday, declared that no struggle had ever 
appeared more futile than the long struggle to abolish slavery; 
yet it had succeeded. ‘“Remember,’ was her comment; “what- 
ever ought to be done can be done.” 


OWEVER the battle is ended, 
Though proudly the victor comes 

With fluttering flags and prancing nags 

And echoing roll of drums, 
Still truth proclaims this motto 

In letters of living light, — 
No question is ever settled 

Until it is settled right. 


Though the heel of the strong oppressor 
May grind the weak in the dust, 

And the voices of fame with one acclaim 
May call him great and just, 

Let those who applaud take warning, 
And keep this motto in sight,— 

No question is ever settled 
Until it is settled right. 


Let those who have failed take courage; 
Tho’ the enemy seems to have won, 
Tho’ his ranks are strong, if he be in the wrong 
The battle is not yet done; 
For, sure as the morning follows 
The darkest hour of the night, 
No question is ever settled 
Until it is settled right. 


O man bowed down with labor! 
O woman young, yet old! 


4 


O heart oppressed in the toiler’s breast 
And crushed by the power of gold! 
Keep on with your weary battle 
Against triumphant might; 
No question is ever settled 
Until it is settled right. 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 


From “Poems of Power,” 
W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, III. 


CONTENTMENT 


It is not so hard to be content after the struggle. Even if we 
have failed, we are satisfied with the knowledge that we put 
up a good fight. But to be content during a struggle—especially 
a struggle in which the world of our hopes goes to pieces about 
us—calls for pluck of a higher order. The noblest heroism is 
that which remains serene at the very moment of treachery and 
disaster. 


APPY the man that, when his day is done, 
Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret— 

The battle he has fought may not be won— 

The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; 
Folding at last his hands upon his breast, 

Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, 
He sinks into the last, eternal rest, 

Breathing these only words: “I am content.” 


But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, 
Sees hopes and friendships dead about him lie— 
Bares his brave breast to envy’s bitter storm, 
Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny ; 
And ’mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, 
Girt only in the armor God hath meant 
For him who ’neath the buffetings of fate 
Can say to God and man: “I am content.” 
Eugene Field. 
From “Poems of Eugene Field,’’ 


Copyright, 1910, by Julia S. Field. 
Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


JOGGIN’ ERLONG 


Conditions may be against us; hard knocks may be our portion. 
But our thought should be concentrated upon the accomplish- 
ment of our purpose. Francis Ouimet declares that in the great 
matches the best golfers play against the card rather than 
against the opponent. The rival’s shots are of course often 
amazingly good. Instead of heeding these, they bend their efforts 
toward playing each hole in par figures; for if they succeed in 
this, their opponent must play better than par golf to beat them. 


E da’kest hour, dey allus say, 
Is des’ befo’ de dawn, 
But it’s moughty ha’d a-waitin’ 
W’ere de night goes frownin’ on; 
An’ it’s moughty ha’d a-hopin’ 
W’en de clouds is big an’ black, 
An’ all de t’ings you’s waited fu’ 
Has failed, er gone to wrack— 
But des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit o’ song, 
De mo’n is allus brightah w’en de night’s been long. 


Dey’s lots o’ knocks you’s got to tek 

Befo’ yo’ journey’s done, 

An’ dey’s times w’en you'll be wishin’ 

Dat de weary race was run; 

W’en you want to give up tryin’ 

An’ des’ float erpon de wave, 

W’en you don’t feel no mo’ sorrer 

Ez you t’ink erbout de grave— 

Den, des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit 0’ song, 
De mo’n is allus brightah we’n de night’s been long. 


De whup-lash sting a good deal mo’ 
De back hit’s knowed befo’, 

An’ de burden’s allus heavies’ 

Whaih hits weights has made a so’; 
Dey is times w’en tribulation 

Seems to git de uppah han’ 

An’ to whip de weary trav lah 

*T well be ain’t got stren’th to stan’— 


6 


But des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit o’ song, 
De mo’n is allus brightah we’n de night’s been long. 
Paul Laurence Dunbar. 


From “Complete Poems,” 
Dodd, Mead & Co. 


PRAYER 


The man who accepts conditions exactly as they are, accepts 
them in full without protest or objection, is spiritually dead. 
Though we should be appreciative of the fine and generous things 
which human beings have accomplished, it is just as incumbent 
upon us to resent the wrongs which still linger. To this extent, 
at least, we should be “ever insurgent.” 


OD, though this life is but a wraith, 

Although we know not what we use, 
Although we grope with little faith, 
Give me the heart to fight—and lose. 


Ever insurgent let me be, 

Make me more daring than devout; 
From sleek contentment keep me free, 
And fill me with a buoyant doubt. 


Open my eyes to visions girt 
With beauty, and with wonder lit— 
But let me always see the dirt, 
And all that spawn and die in it. 


Open my ears to music; let 

Me thrill with Spring’s first flutes and drums— 
But never let me dare forget 

The bitter ballads of the slums. 


From compromise and things half done, 
Keep me, with storm and stubborn pride; 
And when, at last, the fight is won, 
God, keep me still unsatisfied. 
Louss Untermeyer. 
From ‘‘Challenge,” 


Copyrighted by 
Harcourt, Brace & Co. 


I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH 


These valiant lines were written during the World War by a 
young poet who soon afterward kept the rendezvous he announces. 
They remind one of the last words spoken by another man who 
lost his life in the conflict. As Charles Frohman, the theatrical 
producer, stood on the deck of the sinking Lusitania, he said: 
“Now I shall learn the rest of that beautiful adventure we all 
must take.” 


HAVE a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade, 
When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
And apple-blossoms fill the air— 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
When Spring brings back blue days and fair, 


It may be he shall take my hand 
And lead me into his dark land 
And close my eyes and quench my breath— 
It may be I shall pass him still. 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
On some scarred slope of battered hill, 
When Spring comes round again this year 
And the first meadow-flowers appear. 


God knows ’t were better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
Where hushed awakenings are dear... . 
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death 
At midnight in some flaming town, 
When Spring trips north again this year, 
And I to my pledged word am true, 

I shall not fail that rendezvous. 


Alan Seeger. 


From “Poems,” 
Copyright, 1917 
Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


STICK TO IT 


Over the desk of Irving T. Bush, in New York, hangs this 
motto: “Konsider the Postage Stamp, my Son. Its usefulness 
konsists in its ability to stick till it gets there.” 


TICK to it, boy, 
Through the thick and the thin of it! 

Work for the joy 

That is born of the din of it. 
But don’t let them fret you; 
Dangers are lurking, 
But just keep on working. 
If it’s worth while and you’re sure of the right of it, 
Stick to it, boy, and make a real fight of it. 


Stick to it, lad, 
Be not frail and afraid of it; 
Stand to the gad 
For the man to be made of it. 
Deaf to the sneering 
And blind to the jeering, 
Willing to master 
The present disaster, 
Stick to it, lad, through the trial and test of it, 
Patience and courage will give you the best of it. 


Stick to it, youth, 
Be not sudden to fly from it; 
This is the truth, 
Triumph may not far lie from it. 
Dark is the morning 
Before the sun’s dawning, 
Battered and sore of it 
Bear a bit more of it, 
Stick to it, even though blacker than ink it is, 
Victory’s nearer, perhaps, than you think it is! 
Edgar A. Guest. 


From ‘‘The Passing Throng,’ 
The Reilly & Lee Co. 


THE THINKER 


Many years ago the street railways of Chicago were a disgrace 
to the city, yet the newspapers could not get the definite facts 
the public demanded. On the staff of the Chicago Tribune was a 
young reporter named Frank A. Vanderlip, afterward the well- 
known financier. He decided that since inquiries by the journal- 
ists had elicited nothing, he would see what intelligence would do. 
By buying a share of stock in the railways he won the right to 
attend the stockholders’ meetings. It was not long until the 
public was reading the facts through the columns of the Tribune. 


ACK of the beating hammer 
By which the steel is wrought, 

Back of the workshop’s clamor 

The seeker may find the Thought, 
The Thought that is ever master 

Of iron and steam and steel, 
That rises above disaster 

And tramples it under heel! 


The drudge may fret and tinker 
Or labor with dusty blows, 
But back of him stands the Thinker, 
The clear-eyed man who Knows; 
For into each plow or sabre, 
Each piece and part and whole, 
Must go the Brains of Labor, 
Which gives the work a soul! 


Back of the motors humming, 
Back of the belts that sing, 
Back of the hammers drumming, 
Back of the cranes that swing, 
There is the eye which scans them 
Watching through stress and strain, 
There is the Mind which plans them— 
Back of the brawn, the Brain! 


Might of the roaring boiler, 
Force of the engine’s thrust, 


IO 


Strength of the sweating toiler, 
Greatly in these we trust. 
But back of them stands the Schemer, 
The Thinker who drives things through; 
Back of the Job—the Dreamer 
Who’s making the dream come true! 


Berton Braley. 


From “Songs of the Workaday World,” 
Copyright, 1915, 
George H. Doran Co., Publishers. 


THE WINDS OF FATE 


Circumstances are powerful. Fate is powerful. Sometimes 
it appears as if a man is predestined to be beaten helplessly from 
pillar to post, or as if a wrong is to persist forever. But a resolute 
heart can change that which seems to be unchangeable. A friend 
once tried to dissuade Theodore Parker from attacking slavery. 
“It will come to an end in God’s good time,” said he. “The 
trouble is,” replied Parker, “that God isn’t in a hurry, and I am.” 
And he continued to strike vigorously, determined that things 
should not take their course. 


NE ship drives east and another drives west, 
With the self-same winds that blow, 
*Tis the set of the sails 
And not the gales 
That tell them the way to go. 


Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate, 
As we voyage along through life, 

*Tis the set of the soul 

That decides its goal 
And not the calm or the strife. 


Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 


From “Poems of Optimism,” 
W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, II. 


II 


WORK FOR SMALL MEN 


“To understand all is to forgive all,” says the proverb. But 
most of us are not charitable in our attitude. We have an 
exalted opinion of ourselves and a low opinion of those around 
us. Schnitzler was once asked what enjoyment he had found at 
a social function. “If I had not been there myself,” replied he, 
“T should have been terribly bored.” 


ON’T hate your neighbor if his creed 
With your own doctrine fails to fit; 

The chances that you both are wrong, 
You know, are well-nigh infinite. 
Don’t fancy, mid a million worlds 
That fill the silent dome of night, 
The gleams of all pure truth converge 
Within the focus of your sight; 
For this, my friend, is not the work for you: 
So leave all this for smaller men to do. 


Don’t hate men when their hands are hard, 
And patches make their garments whole ; 

A man whose clothes are spick and span 

May wear big patches on his soul. 

Don’t hate a man because his coat 

Does not conform to fashion’s art; 

A man may wear a full-dress suit, 

And have a ragamuffin heart. 

This, my good friend, is not the work for you; 
So leave all this for smaller men to do. 


Hate not the men of narrow scope, 

Of senses dull, whose brows recede, 
Whose hearts are embryos; for you spring, 
My dainty friend, from just this breed. 
Be sure the years will lift them up; 
They’ll toil beneath the patient sky, 

And through the vista of long days 

Will all come forward by and by. 


I2 


Hate not these men; this is no work for you; 
So leave all this for smaller men to do. 


Despise not any man that lives, 

Alien or neighbor, near or far; 

Go out beneath the scornful stars, 

And see how very small you are. 

The world is large, and space is high 

That sweeps around our little ken; 

But there’s no space or time to spare 

In which to hate our fellow-men. 

And this, my friend, is not the work for you; 
Then leave all this for smaller men to do. 


Sam Walter Foss. 


From “Whiffs from Wild Meadows,” 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


WHY REPINE, MY FRIEND? 


HY, why repine, my pensive friend, 
At pleasures slipt away? 
Some the stern Fates will never lend, 
And all refuse to stay. 


I see the rainbow in the sky, 
The dew upon the grass, 

I see them, and I ask not why 
They glimmer or they pass. 


With folded arms I linger not 
To call them back; ’twere vain; 
In this, or in some other spot, 
I know they’ll shine again. 


Walter Savage Landor. 
13 


JANE JONES 


Some people lament because they lack the means of success. 
Others set to work to make the most of such means as they 
have. Daniel Morgan, resolved to give battle to the British, 
adopted the dangerous principle of making his stand with a river 
at his rear. But he reflected that his untried troops would fight 
harder if they knew that retreat was impossible. The rawest 
of them, the ones he was certain would run in any case, he 
stationed far to the front with instructions to fire twice and 
then take to their heels. Of course he forewarned his other 
forces that he was trying to draw the British into a trap. The 
raw recruits carried out their part of the program perfectly 
except in one respect—they fired only once before running. 
Nevertheless Morgan had made such ingenious use of the material 
at his disposal that he, and not his opponent Tarleton, was victor 
in the conflict. 


ANE JONES keeps talkin’ to me all the time, 
An’ says you must make it a rule 
To study your lessons ’nd work hard ’nd learn, 
An’ never be absent from school. 
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, 
An’ how he clum up to the top, 
Got all the knowledge ’at he ever had 
Down in a blacksmithing shop? 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did— 
I dunno! 

O’ course what’s a-keepin’ me ’way from the top, 
Is not never havin’ no blacksmithing shop. 


She said ’at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 
But full of ambition an’ brains; 

An’ studied philosophy all his hull life, 

An’ see what he got for his pains! 

He brought electricity out of the sky, 

With a kite an’ a bottle an’ key, 

An’ we’re owing him more’n any one else 
For all the bright lights ’at we see. 

Jane Jones she hongstly said it was so! 


14 


Mebbe he did— 
I dunno! 
O’ course what’s allers been hinderin’ me 
Is not havin’ any kite, lightning, er key. 


Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all 
An’ used to split rails when a boy; 
An’ General Grant was a tanner by trade 
An’ lived way out in III’nois. 
So when the great war in the South first broke out 
He stood on the side o’ the right, 
An’ when Lincoln called him to take charge o’ things, 
He won nearly every blamed fight. 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did— 

I dunno! 
Still I ain’t to blame, not by a big sight, 
For I ain’t never had any battles to fight. 


She said ’at Columbus was out at the knees 
When he first thought up his big scheme, 
An’ told all the Spaniards ’nd Italians, too, 
An’ all of ’em said ’twas a dream. 
But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, 
"Nd pawned all her jewels o’ worth, 
’Nd bought him the Santa Maria ’nd said, 
“Go hunt up the rest o’ the earth!” 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 

Mebbe he did— 

I dunno! 

©’ course that may be, but then you must allow 
They ain’t no land to discover jest now! 


Ben King. 
From “Ben King’s Verse,”’’ 


Copyright, 1894, by Asenath Bell Kin 
Forbes & Co. a 


PS 


RECESSIONAL 


Kipling’s well-known poem is a prayer that in the hurry for 
accumulation and external achievement we may not forget the 
inner and the spiritual things of life. For it is these, after all, 
that are permanent—these that we should seek with ardor most 
consuming. ‘Every man,” says Marcus Aurelius, “is worth just 
as much as the things are worth about which he is concerned.” 


OD of our fathers, known of old— 
Lord of our far-flung battle line— 
Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine— 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget—lest we forget! 


The tumult and the shouting dies— 
The Captains and the Kings depart— 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget—lest we forget! 


Far-called, our navies melt away— 

On dune and headland sinks the fre— 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
Lest we forget—lest we forget! 


If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— 
Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 
Or lesser breeds without the Law— 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget—lest we forget! 


For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard— 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 


16 


And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard. 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! 
Amen. 


Rudyard Kipling. 


LET SOMETHING GOOD BE SAID 


During the Civil War an ill-considered letter written by a 
Union general fell into the hands of the Confederates. General 
Lee promptly wrote to Jefferson Davis to advise that no publicity 
be given the letter, as this would needlessly bring reproach upon 
the author. Such consideration toward any one, much less 
toward an enemy, is only too rare. 


HEN over the fair fame of friend or foe 
The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead 
Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so, 
Let something good be said. 


Forget not that no fellow-being yet 
May fall so low but love may lift his head: 
Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet, 
If something good be said. 


No generous heart may vainly turn aside 
In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead 
But may awaken strong and glorified, 
If something good be said. 


And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown, 
And by the cross on which the Saviour bled, 
And by your own soul’s hope of fair renown, 
Let something good be said! 


James Whitcomb Riley. 
From the Biographical Edition 


Of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, 
Copyright, 1913. 
Used by special permission of the publishers, 
The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 
17 


THE MAN WITH THE HOE 


Any man with sympathy and insight must feel keenly the 
condition of those who merely and ceaselessly drudge, to whom 
nature and pictures and books and fruitful conversation are 
nothing. The fault does not always lie with the persons them- 
selves; often conditions are responsible. It is the part of wisdom, 
as well as of justice, to see that these conditions are alleviated. 
Otherwise, when the downtrodden have the opportunity, we may 
expect from them outbreaks of furious revenge, such as France 
experienced in the eighteenth century and Russia experienced in 
the twentieth. 


OWED by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
The emptiness of ages in his face, 
And on his back the burden of the world. 
Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 


Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 
To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 
And marked their ways upon the unknown deep? 
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 

There is no shape more terrible than this— 

More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed— 
More filled with signs and portents for the soul— 
More fraught with menace to the universe. 


What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 

What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 


18 


Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop; 

Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned and disinherited, 

Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 

A protest that is also prophecy. 


O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched ? 
How will you ever straighten up this shape; 
Touch it again with immortality ; 

Give back the upward looking and the light; 
Rebuild in it the music and the dream; 

Make right the immemorial infamies, 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 


O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is— 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
After the silence of the centuries ? 


Edwin Markham. 


e 
From ‘‘The Man with the Hoe,” 
Doubleday, Page & Co. 


THREE THINGS 


HREE things are given man to do— 
To dare, to labor and to grow: 
Not otherwise from earth we came, 
Nor otherwise our way we go. 


Bliss Carman. 
19 


TO A WATERFOWL 


Bryant, a young man just licensed to practise law, set out on 
foot across the New England hills to see whether he might find 
a professional opening in the town of Plainfield. He was feeling 

“very forlorn and desolate.” Pausing, he saw against the after- 

glow of a brilliant sunset the flight of a solitary bird. So 
impressed and encouraged was he that when he reached his 
stopping-place for the night he wrote the lines which follow. 
Hartley Coleridge once read them to Matthew Arnold and de- 
clared that they constituted “the best short poem in the language,” 
a verdict with which Arnold was inclined to agree. 


HITHER, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last 
steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 


Vainly the fowler’s eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 


Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side? 


There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 
The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 


All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near. 


And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, 


20 


And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 


Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 


He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 


William Cullen Bryant. 


VALOR 


In mild weather we may boast of braving the storm. On 
shore we may speak of defying the waves. In a parlor we may 
vaunt of ranging battlefields. Valor is plentiful until it is 
brought to the test. But only when the test has been made can 
we be sure whether it is spurious or genuine. 


Ix the reproofs of chance 
Lies the true proof of man. The sea being smooth, 
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail 
Upon her patient breast, making their way 
With those of nobler bulk? 
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage 
The gentle Thetis, and anon, behold 
The strong- -tibb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, 
Bounding between the two moist elements, 
Like Perseus’ horse: where then the saucy boat, 
Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now 
Co-rivall’d greatness? either to harbor fled, 
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so 
Doth valor’s show, and valor’s worth, divide 
In storms of fortune. 

William Shakespeare. 


21 


BARB-WIRE BILL 


There is nothing more inspiring in human nature than the 
willingness of men, even selfish or debased men, to sacrifice 
themselves in order to shield the helpless. 


T dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like 


and grim, 
When Bill McGee he says to me: “‘We’ve got to do it, 
Jim 


“We've got to make Fort Liard quick. I know the river’s 
bad, 

“But, oh! the little woman’s sick . . . why! don’t you 
savvy, lad?” 

And me! Well, yes, I must confess it wasn’t hard to see 

Their little family group of two would soon be one of 


three. 

‘And so I answered, careless-like: ““Why, Bill! you don’t 
suppose 

“T’m scared of that there ‘babbling brook’? Whatever you 
say—goes.” 


A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper- 
lined ; 

For “barb-wire”’ was the brand of “hooch” to which he 
most inclined. 

They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand. 

They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the 
Barren Land. 

From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere; 

And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire, 

The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hun- 
dred skins, 

And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins. 


We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were 


we, 
That Julie Claire from God-knows-where, and Barb-wire 
Bill and me. 


22 


From shore to shore we heard the roar the heaving ice- 
floes make, 

And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed 
in their wake. 

The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in 
its stride; 

And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side. 

With sullen din the banks caved in; the shore-ice lanced 
the stream ; 

The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam. 

Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its 
bed, 

As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we 


sped. 


But “Faster still!’ cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the 
live-long day 

In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay. 

And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes 
seem to curse, 

And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew 
worse. 

And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was 
plucked with pain, 

And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain. 

And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep: 

“The river’s kicking like a steer . . . run out the forward 
sweep! 

“That’s Hell-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its 
roar, 

“And... I'll be damned! the ice ts jammed! We've got 
to make the shore.” 


With one wild leap I gripped the sweep. The night was 
black as sin. 
The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned 
us with its din. 
And ‘aia and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon 
oom; 


23 


And swiit and strong we swept along to meet our awful 
doom. 

And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited 
there, 

My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire; 

And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar, 

And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft 
ashore. | 


The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we scraped 
and crashed, 

I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it 
flashed : 

Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill’s savage 


cry: 

“That’s my job, lad! It’s me that jumps. ITIl snub this 
raft or die!” 

I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land; 

I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in 
hand. 

And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we 
dashed once more, 

And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its 
roar. 

Oh God! all’s lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a 
wail of pain, 

And then—the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at 
the strain ; 

It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I 
held my breath! 

And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws 
of death. 


A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it 
there, 

With all around a hell of sound, and darkness and despair ; 

A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone, 

And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman 
moan ; 


24 


And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out, 

Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow 
shout. 

And yet once more from out the shore I heard that cry of 
pain, 

A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again. 


That night was hell with all the frills, and when the dawn 
broke dim, 

I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him. 

I saw a flat and frozen shore of hideous device, 

T saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through 
the ice, 

And on that treeless, rockless shore I found my partner 
—dead. 

No place was there to snub the raft, so—he had served in- 
stead ; 

And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant 
fight, 

He’d thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and 
gripped him tight; 

And eri he’d held us back from death, as fast in death 

AVE ster 
Say, boys! I’m not the pious brand, but—I just tried to 


pray. 

And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed 
was I, 

For from the robes that covered her, I—heard—a—baby 
—cry... 


Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was 
Beeiven: 
And though no saint on earth, d’ye think Bill’s squared 
hisself with Heaven? 
Robert W. Service. 
From “Rhymes of a Rolling Stone,” 


Copyright, 1912, 
Dodd, Mead and Company, 


25 


THE BRAVEST BATTLE 


A man stakes everything on one swift effort and either wins 
or loses. A mother struggling for the good of her child is 
engaged in a battle which fluctuates through a whole lifetime. 


HE bravest battle that ever was fought; 
Shall I tell you where and when? 
On the maps of the world you will find it not; 
It was fought by the mothers of men. 


Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, 
With sword or braver pen; 

Nay, not with eloquent word or thought, 
From mouths of wonderful men, 


But deep in a woman’s walled-up heart— 
Of woman that would not yield, 

But patiently, silently bore her part— 
Lo! there in that battlefield. 


No marshaling troop, no bivouac song; 
No banner to gleam and wave; 

And oh! these battles they last so long— 
From babyhood to the grave! 


Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, 
She fights in her walled-up town— 
Fights on and on in the endless wars, 
Then silent, unseen—goes down. 
Joaquin Miller. 


From “Complete Poetical Works,” 
Harr Wagner Publishing Co. 


THEY ONLY LIVE WHO DARE 


TAND upright! speak thy thoughts! declare 
The truth thou hast, that all may share! 
Be bold! proclaim it everywhere! 
They only live who dare. 
Lewis Morris. 


26 


A PRAYER 


Most of us shirk all the difficulties, all the opposition we can. 
The wiser among us know that in many respects these are things 
to be sought rather than shirked. The goddess Hera hated a 
certain hero, persecuted him, set him what seemed impossible 
tasks. He bore it all valiantly, became great and famous through 
overcoming the perils she thought would crush him. His very 
name, Hercules, means renowned through Hera. 


ORD, let me live like a Regular Man, 
With Regular friends and true; 

Let me play the game on a Regular plan 
And play it that way all through; 

Let me win or lose with a Regular smile 
And never be known to whine, 

For that is a “Regular Fellow’s” style 
And I want to make it mine! 


Oh, give me a Regular chance in life, 
The same as the rest, I pray, 

And give me a Regular Girl for wife 
To help me along the way; 

Let us know the lot of humanity, 
Its Regular woes and joys, 

And raise a Regular family 
Of Regular girls and boys! 


Let me live to a Regular good old age, 
With Regular snow-white hair, 

Having done my labor and earned my wage 
And played my game for fair; 

And so at last when the people scan 
My face on its peaceful bier, 

They'll say, “Well, he was a Regular Man!” 
And drop a Regular tear! 


Berton Braley. 
From “Things As They Are,” 


Copyright, 10916, 
George H. Doran Co., Publishers. 


27 


THE WINNER 


“Expende Hannibalem,” it used to be said; “weigh Hannibal 
and see wherein he is greater than other men.” Not in mere 
physique, not in the chemical elements which formed his body. 
In the spirit which animated him and drove him on to unresting 
activity. Once a boy was so fond of tinkering with machinery 
that for pure love of it he would repair all the watches and 
clocks in the countryside. His father, believing such application 
not good for his health, forbade him to go out at night and do 
such work. But the boy would slip off after his father was 
asleep and would spend hours repairing some dilapidated time- 
piece. Nor did these night labors prevent him from toiling on 
the farm the next day. Here, surely, was a spirit that would 
not be denied. The name of the boy was Henry Ford. 


HE cove who never kids himself, 
Who looks at facts without a frown, 

Who knows that life is full of knots, 
And not a bed of eiderdown— 
Who does his stuff against the breaks, 
Unmindful of the yapping throng, 
With little time for alibis— 
Will get along. 


The cove who knows the uphill road 

Is better training for the fray 

Than sliding into quick renown 

Along the somewhat softer way— 
Who throws self-pity to the gales 
And knows that life is mostly fight, 
Who chirps, “What of it?” in defeat— 
Will do all right. 


The bloke who knows the world is rough, 
And not a clover bed of rest; 

Who takes his fortune as it comes 

And promptly counters with his best— 
Who slogs along through fogs of doubt, 
Fear, pain and envy and despair, 

With clear eyes fixed upon the goal— 
Will get somewhere. 


28 


The bloke who chucks aside pretense 
And stands four-square with what he has, 
Who still can take a sock or two, 
Nor crumble up before the razz— 
Who doesn’t sour on the scrap 
Because his luck is badly frayed, 
But plays the game out to the turn— 
Will make the grade. 
Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author. 
From “The Sportlight.” 


PRETTY GOOD SCHEMES 


Only two women lived in the village, and they had a quarrel. 
“You ought to feel mean,” said one to the other—‘“there ain’t 
another woman in the village that likes you.” Perhaps under the 
circumstances some pulling together might have been better than 
pulling apart. 


| ies a pretty good scheme to be cheery, and sing as 
you follow the road, for a good many pilgrims are 
weary, and hopelessly carry the load; their hearts from 
the journey are breaking, and a rod seems to them like 
a mile; and it may be the noise you are making will 
hearten them up for a while. It’s a pretty good scheme 
in your joking, to cut out the jest that’s unkind, for the 
barbed kind of fun you are poking, some fellow may 
carry in mind; and a good many hearts have been broken, 
a good many hearts fond and true, by words that were 
carelessly spoken by alecky fellows like you. It’s a pretty 
good scheme to be doing some choring around while you 
can; for the gods with their gifts are pursuing the earnest 
industrious man; and those gods, in their own El Dorado, 
are laying up wrath for the one who loafs all the day in 
the shadow, while others toil, out in the sun. 


Walt Mason. 


Copyright, 1910, 
Permission of George Matthew Adams. 


29 


THE SERVICE 


We may have influence even where we cannot have victory. 
An amazed gentleman saw a boy climbing a tree to capture a 
bird. The intended victim simply flew to another tree. But the 
boy followed it, and later followed it to yet another refuge. “My 
lad,” said the gentleman, “you can’t catch that bird by climbing,” 
“No,” replied the boy, “but I can worry it like everything.” 


I WAS the third man running in a race, 

And memory still must run it o’er and o’er: 
The pounding heart that beat against my frame; 
The wind that dried the sweat upon my face 
And turned my throat to paper creased and sore; 
The jabbing pain that sharply went and came. 


My eyes saw nothing save a strip of road 

That flaunted there behind the second man; 

It swam and blurred, yet still it lay before. 

My legs seemed none of mine, but rhythmic strode 
Unconscious of my will that urged, “You can!” 
And cried at them to make one effort more. 


Then suddenly there broke a wave of sound,— 
Crowds shouting when the first man struck the tape; 
And then the second roused that friendly din; 
While I—I stumbled forward and the ground 

All wavered ’neath my feet, while men agape, 

But silent, saw me as I staggered in. 


As sick in heart and flesh I bent my head, 

Two seized me and embraced me, and one cried, 
“Your thudding footsteps held me to the grind.” 
And then the winner, smiling wanly, said, 

“No dream of records kept me to my stride— 

I dreaded you two thundering behind!’ 


Burges Johnson. 


Copyright, ¢ 
Harper’s Magazine. 


30 


A GLANCE AT HISTORY 


“There is very little success where there is little laughter.” 
Such was the opinion of Andrew Carnegie. A cheerful disposi- 
tion is, in truth, one of the elements of success. In a sense it 
itself zs success, for by means of a smile it can soften defeat or 
make the sting of death bearable. Whistler, the future artist, 
when a cadet at West Point, though he stood at the head of his 
class in drawing, was so poor in chemistry that he had to be 
dismissed from the institution. It was a sad blow to him, but 
he did not repine. Years afterward he remarked whimsically: 
“Had silicon been a gas, I would have been a major-general.” 


Ca THE FIRST, with stately walk, made 
the journey to the block. As he paced the street 
along, silence fell upon the throng; from that throng there 
burst a sigh, for a king was come to die! Charles upon 
the scafiold stood, in his veins no craven blood; calm, 
serene, he viewed the crowd, while the headsman said, 
aloud: “Cheer up, Charlie! Smile and sing! Death’s 
a most delightful thing! I will cure your hacking cough, 
when I chop your headpiece off! Headache, toothache— 
they’re a bore! You will never have them more! Cheer 
up, Charlie, dance and yell! Here’s the axe, and all is 
well! I, though but a humble dub, represent the Sunshine 
Club, and our motto is worth while: ‘Do Not Worry— 
Sing and Smile!’ Therefore let us both be gay, as we do 
our stunt to-day; I to swing the shining axe, you to take 
a few swift whacks. Lumpty-doodle, lumpty-ding, do 
not worry, smile and sing!” 
Walt Mason. 


Copyright, 1910, 
Permission of George Matthew Adams. 


THE BRAVE MAN 


HE brave man is not he who feels no fear, 
For that were stupid and irrational ; 
But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues, 
And bravely dares the dangers nature shrinks from. 
Joanna Baillie. 


31 


THE SOUL’S SPRING CLEANING 


In what Carlyle calls “the annual earthquake of housecleaning” 
our mental and moral, as well as our domiciliary, furnishings 
should be shaken, dusted, and if need be, replaced. Even the most 
stupendous and original genius may fall in some respects into 
intellectual torpor. Napoleon, on the French side of the English 
channel, was fretting and fuming because he could not transport 
his army to British soil. He was told that an American wished 
to speak with him about a new idea. “Tell the American I can 
give him two minutes.” But two minutes were not enough for 
even Napoleon to grasp the revolutionary idea of a ship propelled 
by steam rather than by sails. Had he listened longer to Robert 
Fulton, the history of mankind might have been altered. 


ES, clean yer house, an’ clean yer shed, 
An’ clean yer barn in ev’ry part; 
But brush the cobwebs from yer head, 
An’ sweep the snow-bank from yer heart. 
Yes, w’en spring cleanin’ comes aroun’ 
Bring forth the duster an’ the broom, 
But rake yer fogy notions down, 
An’ sweep yer dusty soul of gloom. 


Sweep ol’ idees out with the dust, 
An’ dress yer soul in newer style; 
Scrape from yer min’ its wornout crust, 
An’ dump it in the rubbish pile. 
Sweep out the hates that burn an’ smart, 
Bring in new loves serene an’ pure, 
Aroun’ the herthstone of the heart 
Place modern styles of furniture. 


Clean out yer morril cubby-holes, 

Sweep out the dirt, scrape off the scum; 
*Tis cleanin’ time for healthy souls— 

Git up an’ dust! The spring hez come! 
Clean out the corners of the brain, 

Bear down with scrubbin’-brush an’ soap, 
An’ dump ol’ Fear into the rain, 

An’ dust a cozy chair for Hope. 


32 


Clean out the brain’s deep rubbish-hole, 
Soak ev’ry cranny, great an’ small, 
An’ in the front room of the soul 
Hang pootier pictures on the wall. 
Scrub up the winders of the mind, 
Clean up, an’ let the spring begin; 
Swing open wide the dusty blind, 
An’ let the April sunshine in. 


Plant flowers in the soul’s front yard, 
Set out new shade an’ blossom trees, 
An’ let the soul once froze an’ hard 
Sprout crocuses of new idees. 
Yes, clean yer house, an’ clean yer shed, 
An’ clean yer barn in ev’ry part; 
But brush the cobwebs from yer head, 
An’ sweep the snow-banks from yer heart! 


Sam Walter Foss. 
From “Whiffs from Wild Meadows,” 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


I WOULD BE TRUE 


WOULD be true, for there are those who trust me; 
I would be pure, for there are those who care; 

I would be strong, for there is much to suffer ; 

I would be brave, for there is much to dare. 
I would be friend of all—the foe, the friendless ; 

I would be giving and forget the gift. 
I would be humble, for I know my weakness ; 

I would look up—and laugh—and love—and lift. 


Howard Arnold Walter. 


33 


THE BATTLE-FIELD 


To fight for your country, on one heroic day or through one 
heroic year, is glorious. To fight for truth and right, without 
any cessation, is even more glorious. Such a fight must end in 
ultimate victory. But meanwhile the outlook will often be dark 
and a many-weaponed throng will “hang on thy front, and flank, 
and rear.” However magnanimous your. spirit, you must expect 
to have enemies. If you have none, it will be because you are 
struggling for nothing worth while. William Rockhill Nelson, 
the famous editor of the Kansas City Star, was once asked 
whether he would not like to carry to bed with him at night the 
thought that he had not a single enemy. “No, no,” he replied, 
“if I thought that, I wouldn’t sleep a wink.” 


NCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle cloud. 


Ah! never shall the land forget 
How gushed the life-blood of her brave— 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 


Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 
Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 
And bell of wandering kine are heard. 


No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain, 
Men start not at the battle-cry ; 

Oh, be it never heard again! 


Soon rested those who fought; but thou, 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 


A friendless warfare! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year. 


34 


A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 


Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot. 
The timid good may stand aloof, 
The sage may frown—yet faint thou not. 


Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 


Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
The eternal years of God are hers; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 


Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 
Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 


Another hand the sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 


Wiliam Cullen Bryant. 


STRONG HEARTS 


TRONG hearts within the present live, 
The future veiled, the past forgot; 
Grasping what is with hands of steel, 
They bind what shall be to their will. 


Lewis Morris. 
35 


IF I WERE A MAN, A YOUNG MAN 


We can all have tenderness and sympathy, we can all have 
vision, we can all have buoyant and resolute purpose. Do we? 


[° I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day, 
I would look in the eyes of Life undaunted 
By any Fate that might threaten me. 
I would give to the world what the world most wanted— 
Manhood that knows it can do and be; 
Courage that dares, and faith that can see 
Clear into the depths of the human soul, 
And find God there, and the ultimate goal, 
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day. 


If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day, 
I would think of myself as the masterful creature 
Of all the Masterful plan; 
The Formless Cause, with form and feature; 
The Power that heeds not limit or ban; 
Man, wonderful man. | 
I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway; 
I would weave my woes into ropes and climb 
Up to the heights of the helper’s gateway ; 
And Life should serve me, and Time, 
And I would sail out, and out, and find’ 
The treasures that lie in the deep sea, Mind. 
I would dream, and think, and act; 
I would work, and love, and pray, 
Till each dream and vision grew into a fact, 
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day. 


If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day, 
I would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures, 
36 


And keep them high and clean. 
(For the will of a man, with his passions, measures ; 
It is strong as they are keen.) 
IT would think of each woman as some one’s mother ; 
I would think of each man as my own blood brother, 
And speed him along on his way. 
And the glory of life in this wonderful hour 
Should fill me and thrill me with Conscious power, 
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know 
to-day. 


Ella Wheeler Wilcoz. 


From ‘‘Poems of Optimism,” 
W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, Ill. 


MOTHER O’ MINE 


“All that I am or hope to be,” said Abraham Lincoln, “I owe 
to my mother.” 


IF I were hanged on the highest hill, 
Mother o mine, O mother o’ mine! : 

I know whose love would follow me still, 
Mother o mine, O mother o mine! 


If I were drowned in the deepest sea, 
Mother o’ mime, O mother o’ mine! 

I know whose tears would come down to me, 
Mother o’ mime, O mother o’ mine! 


If I were damned of body and soul, 
I know whose prayers would make me whole, 
Mother o? mine, O mother o mine! 


Rudyard Képling. 


From the Dedication in 
“The Light That Failed.” 


37 


TRY, TRY AGAIN 


When a cowboy has lassoed and captured a wild horse on the 
plains, he faces the still harder problem of getting it to the 
corral, miles away. For this purpose he not infrequently leaves 
it tied until he can bring a burro to the place. Then he takes 
a short strap containing a swivel, fastens one end around the 
neck of the horse and the other around the neck of the burro, 
and turns the two animals loose. The donkey, though far 
inferior in strength, braces himself with his legs and resists 
stubbornly when the lorse is going away from the corral. He 
jogs along placidly when the horse is going toward the corral. 
Sooner or later his persistence conquers and he brings his more 
powerful captive home to his master. 


°F TIS a lesson you should heed, 
Try, try again; 
If at first you don’t succeed, 
Try, try again; 
Then your courage should appear, 
For, if you will persevere, 
You will conquer, never fear; 
Try, try again. 


Once or twice though you should fail, 
Try, try again; 

If you would at last prevail, 
Try, try again; 

If we strive, ‘tis no disgrace 

Though we do not win the race; 

What should you do in the case? 
Try, try again. 


If you find your task is hard, 

Try, try again; 
Time will bring you your reward, 

Try, try again. 
All that other folks can do, 
Why, with patience, should not you? 
Only keep this rule in view: 

Try, try again. 

IT. H. Palmer. 
38 


THE BROKEN PINION 


A man with a peg leg learned to walk on polished hardwood 
floors by attaching a nail to the end of the leg and so preventing 
himself from slipping. It was, to be sure, an effective device. 
All the same he was a less satisfactory visitor than if his leg 
had been of flesh and bone. 


WALKED through the woodland meadow 
Where sweet the thrushes sing; 

And I found on a bed of mosses 

A bird with a broken wing. 
I healed its wound, and each morning 

It sang its old sweet strain, 
But the bird with a broken pinion 

Never soared as high again. 


I found a young life broken 
By sin’s seductive art; 

And touched with a Christlike pity, 
I took him to my heart. 

He lived with a noble purpose 
And struggled not in vain; 

But the life that sin had stricken 
Never soared as high again. 


But the bird with a broken pinion 
Kept another from the snare; 
And the life that sin had stricken 
Raised another from despair. 

Each loss has its compensation, 
There is healing for every pain; 

But the bird with a broken pinion 
Never soars as high again. 


Hezekiah Butterworth. 


39 


IF YOU HAVE A FRIEND 


Mark Twain declared that people talk a great deal about the 
weather, but nobody does anything. Our appreciation of our 
fellows’ qualities and achievements is often similarly inactive. 
We ourselves feel it; but we say nothing about it, give it no 
tangible and encouraging form. 


F you have a friend worth loving, 
Love him! Yes, and let him know 
That you love him, ere life’s evening 
Tinge his brow with sunset glow. 
Why should good words ne’er be said 
Of a friend—till he is dead? 


If you hear a song that thrills you, 
Sung by any child of song, 
Praise it! Do not let the singer 
Wait deserved praises long. 
Why should one who thrills your heart 
Lack the joy you may impart? 


If you hear a prayer that moves you 
By its humble, pleading tone, 
Join it! Do not let the seeker 
Bow before its God alone. 
Why should not your brother share 
The strength of “two or three” in prayer? 


If you see the hot tears falling 
From a brother’s weeping eyes, 
Share them! And by kindly sharing 

Own our kinship in the skies. 
Why should anyone be glad 
When a brother’s heart is sad? 


If a silvery laugh goes rippling 
Through the sunshine on his face, 
Share it! ’Tis the wise man’s saying— 

For both grief and joy a place. 


40 


There’s health and goodness in the mirth 
In which an honest laugh has birth. 


If your work is made more easy 
By a friendly, helping hand, 

Say so! Speak out brave and truly 
Ere the darkness veil the land. 

Should a brother. workman deat 

Falter for a word of cheer? 


Scatter thus your seeds of kindness 
All enriching as you go— 

Leave them! ‘Trust the Harvest-Giver ; 
He will make each seed to grow. 

So, until the happy end, 

Your life shall never lack a friend. 


Anonymous. 


VALIANT REDRESS 


Diogenes went about with his lantern seeking for a man. 
He would not have found him in the fellow who cries because 


he is hurt or quits because of a setback. 


ISE men ne’er sit and wail their loss, 

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms, 
What though the mast be now blown overboard, 
The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 
And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood? 
Yet lives our pilot still: Is’t meet, that he 
Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad, 
With tearful eyes, add water to the sea, 
And give more strength to that which hath too much; 
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, 
Which industry and courage might have saved? 


William Shakespeare. 
4 | 


THE MAN WHO BRINGS UP THE REAR END 


It is not always the conspicuous who deserve the most praise. 
“Any man can work,” said Henry Ward Beecher, “when every 
stroke of his hand brings down the fruit rattling from the tree 
to the ground; but to labor in season and out of season, under 
every discouragement, by the power of truth ... that requires 
a heroism which is transcendent.” 


OLKS watch the drum major and say “see him come!” 
And the fellow who plays on the fife, 
And the rub-a-dub man who beats the big drum, 
And the bugler who blows for dear life. 
They go with the music; they march with the noise; 
For the chief in the van they all hunt, 
There is smiling of maidens and shouting of boys, 
And cheering of men—in the front. 
But there’s never a cheer that gladdens the ear, 
Nor the shout of a brother or friend, 
For the mud spattered man who has dropped from the van, 
For the man who brings up the rear end. 
Not a bravo is heard, not a word, not a word, 
As they see him stub on round the bend; 
Not a cheer from the churls, not a smile from the girls, 
For the man who brings up the rear end! 


There are shouts for the victor whose name like a star, 
Rose red from the hot clouds of fame, 
Thro’ the battle smoke of a lurid war, 
To climb up the heaven of fame. 
And his ears are beset with a tumult of tongues, 
That prate of the danger he braved, 
With a chorus of praise from the lusty lungs 
Of the men of the land he saved. 
But I sing of the man who has dropped from the van, 
From the front he could never defend, 
Who could never await the harsh volleys of fate— 
The man who brings up the rear end! 
Then a good strong shout in the rear of the rout, 
And the brotherly cheer of a friend; 


42 


A cheer that shall start from the core of the heart, 
For the man who brings up the rear end. 


And who are the men who bring up the rear end? 
The laggards too weak to be great? 

Time’s water-logged timber too rotten to mend? 
Abortions and weaklings of fate? 

Not so: There are poets whose songs are unsung, 
And singers of wonderful tone, 

Reformers whose thunderous words might have stung 
To the roots of a tottering throne! 

Then shout your huzzas and your loudest hurrahs, 
Until the loud welkin shall rend; 

Let your loud plaudits grace the world-weary face 
Of the man who brings up the rear end! 

Then shout without fear for the man in the rear, 
Let your heaven-scaling plaudits ascend! 

Cry aloud! cry aloud! you men there in the crowd! 
For the man who brings up the rear end! 


There are plebeian souls who sit on a throne, 
And Kings who wear never a crown; 
There are long-gowned priests who are devils unknown, 
And saints in the frock of the clown; 
There are hearts that are black ‘neath the King’s purple 
vest, 
And white ’neath the swain’s drilling frock, 
And the laborer’s coat may be armor the best 
For meeting adversity’s shock. 
Then a cheer and a roar, and three cheers more, 
For the man most in need of a friend; 
Good cheer for the man who has dropped from the van, 
The man who brings up the rear end! 
Then shout your cheer right into his ear, 
Let your voices in unity blend; 
One loud, long shout in the rear of the rout, 
For the man who brings up the rear end! 
Sam Walter Foss. 


From “Back Country Poems,’ 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


43 


FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN 


Irvin Cobb tells a story of a skilful chef who lost his life in 
a hotel fire. Some of the people to whose appetites he had min- 
istered decided to set up a monument to him, and on this monu- 
ment they wished to have an inscription which should suggest 
his occupation, commend his fidelity, indicate the manner of his 
death, and include some appropriate sentiment from the Scrip- 
tures. But to state so many things would require more words 
than there was room for. The difficulty was at length overcome 
when somebody remarked that everything could be compressed 
into a single brief sentence: “Well done, thou good and faithful 


servant.” 


UPERINTINDINT was Flannigan; 
Boss av th’ siction wuz Finnigin ; 

Whiniver th’ cyars got off th’ track 
An’ muddled up things t’ th’ divvle an’ back, 
Finnigin writ it t’ Flannigan, 
Afther th’ wrick wuz on agin; 
That is, this Finnigin 
Repoorted to Flannigan. 


Whin Finnigin furrst writ t’ Flannigan, 

He writed tin pa-ages, did Finnigin ; 

An’ he towld just how th’ wrick occurred— 
Yis, minny a tajus, blundherin’ wurrd 

Did Finnigin write t’ Flannigan 

Afther th’ cyars had gone on agin— 

That’s th’ way Finnigin 

Repoorted t’ Flannigan, 


Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin— 
He’d more idjucation, had Flannigan. 

An’ ut wore ’m clane an’ complately out 

T’ tell what Finnigin writ about 

In ’s writin’ t?’ Musther Flannigan. 

So he writed this back. “Musther Finnigin:— 
Don’t do sich a sin agin; 

Make ’em brief, Finnigin!” 


44 


Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan 

He blushed rosy-rid, did Finnigin ; 

An’ he said: “I’ll gamble a whole month’s pay 
That ut’ll be minny an’ minny a day 

Befure sup’rintindint—that’s Flannigan— 
Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. 

Frum Finnigin to Flannigan 

Repoorts won’t be long agin.” 


Wan day on th’ siction av Finnigin, 

On th’ road sup’rintinded by Flannigan, 

A ra-ail give way on a bit av a curve 

An’ some cyars wint off as they made th’ shwerrve. 
“They’s nobody hurrted,”’ says Finnigin, 

“But repoorts must be made t’ Flannigan.” 

An’ he winked at McGorrigan, 

As married a Finnigin. 


He wuz shantyin’ thin, wuz Finnigin, 
As minny a railroader’s been agin, 
An’ ’is shmoky ol’ lamp wuz burrnin’ bright 
In Finnigin’s shanty all that night— 
Bilin’ down ’s repoort, wuz Finnigan. 
An’ he writed this here: “Musther Flannigan :— 
Off agin, on agin, 
Gone agin.—Finnigin.” 
Strickland Guillilan. 


From “Including Finnigin,” 
Forbes & Co. 


INFLUENCE 


HIS learned I from the shadow of a tree, 
Which, to and fro, did sway against a wall: 
Our shadow-selves, our influence, may fall 
Where we can never be. 
Anonymous. 


45 


COMPULSION 


No man likes to have his nose forever pressed against the 
grindstone. But the very necessity to hustle is the surest guar- 
antee that we will put forth a real effort. And in the unabated 
exercise of our powers lies happiness. 


ERENITY’S fine if not born of sloth; 
Cheer’s good if not cheer and complacency both. 

Give us the peace of those who strive, 
The tranquillity that’s tense and alive. 
Compulsion and prodding and buffets and knocks 
Bring bliss—that’s the truth, though a paradox. 
When we have been set an imperative goal, 
We struggle toward it—with a placid soul. 


You may doubt if you will, and you may scoff, 
But the man hard pushed is the man well off. 
If you’ve almost been fired, if you’re harried by debt, 
You'll take interest in life—you’ll get up and get! 
What man has most joy? He who shakes the dust 
Of idleness from him because he must. 
He’s chased in a field by a masculine cow 
And gasps: “Good Lord! I am happy now.” 


It’s a glorious race! The bull he paws 
And bellows and menaces, jabbers and jaws, 
And then he starts; and the man starts too, 
For loitering around’s not the thing to do. 
It’s a desperate game of nip and tuck; 
The man prays for speed and wind and luck— 
He pants, with the bull one jump behind: 
“My specialty’s content of mind.” 


He’s helped along by the excellent chance 
Those horns will make ribbons out of his pants 
And mincemeat out of what flesh may remain 
When he’s beaten to pulp of the finest grain. 

46 


But he’d hate to be millinery, hate to be steaks, 
Or newspapers either; so his leg he shakes. 
He’s blithe as he burns wind, grass, and grit, 
And he chirps: “I’m assuredly doing my bit.” 


With thundering hoof, with outstretched tail, 

Hot breath, horns ready to impale, 

The bull comes on. And the man he goes, 

And whether he’ll make it nobody knows. 

But the thing I’m trying to get expressed 

Is this: That man will do his best. 

The fence is two long miles away, 

And he runs like hell—but his heart is gay. 


St. Clair Adams. 


RECIPE FOR SANITY 


RE you worsted in a fight? 
Laugh it off. 
Are you cheated of your right? 
Laugh it off. 
Don’t make tragedy of trifles, 
Don’t shoot butterflies with rifles— 
Laugh it off. 


Does your work get into kinks? 

Laugh it off. 
Are you near all sorts of brinks? 

Laugh it off. 
If it’s sanity you’re after 
There’s no recipe like laughter— 

Laugh it off. 

Henry Rutherford Elliot. 


47 


AN OBSTACLE 


Prejudices do not harmonize with constructive work. They 
are like the notes of the young vocalist to whom her teacher 
despairingly exclaimed: “Ach, Gott! Never have I heard such 
a voice. I blay on der vite keys and I blay on der black keys, 
but you sing in der cracks.” 


WAS climbing up a mountain-path 
With many things to do, 
Important business of my own, 
And other people’s too, 
When I ran against a Prejudice 
That quite cut off the view. 


My work was such as could not wait, 
My path quite clearly showed, 

My strength and time were limited, 
I carried quite a load, 

And there that hulking Prejudice 
Sat all across the road. 


So I spoke to him politely, 
For he was huge and high, 

And begged that he would move a bit 
And let me travel by— 

He smiled, but as for moving !— 
He didn’t even try. 


‘And then I reasoned quietly 
With that colossal mule; 
My time was short—no other path— 
The mountain winds were cool— 
I argued like a Solomon, 
He sat there like a fool. 


Then I flew into a passion, 

I danced and howled and swore, 
I pelted and belabored him 

Till I was stiff and sore; 


48 


He got as mad as I did— 
But he sat there as before. 


And then I begged him on my knees— 
I might be kneeling still 

If so I hoped to move that mass 
Of obdurate ill-will— 

As well invite the monument 
To vacate Bunker Hill! 


So I sat before him helpless, 
In an ecstasy of woe— 
The mountain mists were rising fast, 
The sun was sinking slow— 
When a sudden inspiration came, 
As sudden winds do blow. 


I took my hat, I took my stick, 
My load I settled fair, 

I approached that awful incubus 
With an absent-minded air— 

And I walked directly through him, 
As if he wasn’t there! 


Charlotte Perkins Gilman. 


From “In This Our World,” 
Small, Maynard & Co. 


SOMEBODY 


OMEBODY did a golden deed; 
Somebody proved a friend in need; 

Somebody sang a beautiful song; 
Somebody smiled the whole day long; 
Somebody thought “’Tis sweet to live’; 
Somebody said “I’m glad to give”; 
Somebody fought a valiant fight ; 
Somebody lived to shield the right ; 


Was that “somebody” you? 
Anonymous. 


49 


HE WHISTLED 


Whoever blows a tune out of his lips blows a sorrow out of 
his life. 


Wi craps wuz burnt to flinders, 
An’ not a rain in sight, 
He opened all the winders 
An’ whistled in the light— 
Jest whistled 
An’ whistled, 
Like that ’ud make things bright. 


When mortgages wuz growin’, 
Like weeds by day an’ night, 
He kep’ right on a-hoein’ 
An’ whistled in the light— 
Jest whistled 
An’ whistled, 
Like that ’ud make things bright. 


In sowin’ time or reapin’, 
In wrong as well as right, 
When shadders come a-creepin’, 
He whistled fer the light— 
Jest whistled 
An’ whistled, 


Like that ’ud make things bright. 


Somehow he’d hear bells ringin’ 
Fer all the night an’ day, 
An’ still the birds kep’ singin’ 
When blue skies turned to gray. 
He whistled, 
Jest whistled 
The rocky world away. 


Frank L. Stanton. 


Printed in and permission from 
“The Atlanta Constitution.” 


50 


CRISES 


The few great crises that come to a man are the test of the 
fiber of his soul. He may have been seemingly big, and yet 
now in his frantic and irrational actions may show himself 
fundamentally a coward. On the other hand, he may have 
seemed insignificant, and yet now may tower up like a giant 
by the way he takes defeat. When a ship is sinking, the real 
heroes—the men with steel in their souls—stand out. After 
every financial crash, most of the cowards have absconded or 
blown their brains out. Yet a small property-holder sees every- 
thing he owns burned with his house, and before the ashes are 
cold he is planning to build again. The routine of life has 
represented him falsely; the crisis has proved him a hero. 


E lead out our days in monotonous ways, 
The humdrum of work and sleep; 
Time slips along; no thrill in the song; 
There’s not even reason to weep. 
Then like a flash there comes a crash— 
We're stunned by the buffet Fate gives; 
In the blackness and blur we feel the Soul stir— 
And that is the moment one lives. 


When disaster beats round, the true men are 
found; 
And cowards are marked with a brand. 
They whimper and whine, they cringe and repine 
At the whip-lash Fate holds in her hand. 
The brave struggle on though chasms may yawn, 
And midnight’s unlit by a star; 
How you face defeat in the crises you meet— 
That measures the man you are. 


All through the years there are laughs and tears, 
But they in the end are the same. 
A moment of life in the midst of the strife 
Is worth ages of watching the game. 
With despair in your heart, if you still played 
your part, 
Though bloody and beaten and sore, 
If your Soul flamed white in a hopeless fight, 
The world will ask for no more. 
Joseph Morris. 


Rie 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY OF iELINOIS 


SONNET ON CHILLON 


Chillon is a castle in the Lake of Geneva. This sonnet forms 
the introduction to “The Prisoner of Chillon”, a poem on Bon- 
nivard’s long imprisonment in the castle. Though Byron had 
many faults, he was an ardent, even an indignant, champion 
of liberty. 


| Reeth ner Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart— 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign’d— 

To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar; for ’twas trod 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard !—May none those marks efface! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 


Lord Byron. 


HOPE 


OPE, of all passions, most befriends us here, 

Passions of prouder name befriend us less, 
Joy has her tears; and transport has her death; 
Hope, like a cordial, innocent, tho’ strong, 
Man’s heart at once inspirits and serenes; 
Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys; 
’*Tis all our present state can safely bear, 
Health to the frame, and vigor to the mind! 
A joy attemper’d! a chastis’d delight! 
Like the fair summer ev’ning, mild and sweet! 
*Tis man’s full cup, his paradise below! 


Edward Young. 
52 


FORGIVENESS 


A man journeying into the desert must not carry useless 
baggage. 


Y heart was heavy, for its trust had been 
Abused, its kindness answered with foul 
wrong ; 
So, turning gloomily from my fellowmen, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 
The green mounds of the village burial-place; 
Where, pondering how all human love and 
hate 
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late, 
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened 
face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 
Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none 
depart, 
Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I 
forgave! 
John Greenleaf Whittier. 


HEART-REST 


HE heart of man, walk in which way it will, 

Sequestered or frequented, smooth or rough, 
Down the deep valleys amongst tinkling flocks, 
Or mid the clang of trumpets and the march 
Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt, 
Its hour of truce, its instant of repose, 
Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek 
The food of its affections,—still must slake 
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure, 
And pleasant to behold. 

Siw Henry Taylor. 


53 


IF WE KNEW 


The kindness we mean to show to-morrow cures no heart- 
aches to-day. 


F we knew the woe and heartache 
That awaits us on the road; 
If our lips could taste the wormwood, 
If our backs could feel the load; 
Would we waste to-day in wishing 
For a time that ne’er may be? 
Would we wait in such impatience 
For our ships to come from sea? 


If we knew the baby fingers 
Pressed against the window-pane 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,— 
Never trouble us again ; 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 
Catch the frown upon our brow? 
Would the print of baby fingers 
Vex us then as they do now? 


Ah! those little ice-cold fingers, 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty, words and actions 

Strewn along the backward track! 
How those little hands remind us, 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns, but roses, 

For the reaping by and by. 


Strange, we never prize the music 
Till the sweet-voiced birds have flown; 
Strange, that we should slight the violets 
Till the lovely flowers are gone; 
Strange, that summer skies and sunshine 
Never seem one half so fair 
As when winter’s snowy pinions 
Shake the white down in the air. 


54 


Lips from which the seal of silence 
None but God can roll away 

Never blossomed in such beauty 
As adorns the mouth to-day; 

And sweet words that freight our memory 
With their beautiful perfume 

Come to us in sweeter accents 
Through the portals of the tomb. 


Let us gather up the sunbeams 
Lying all around our path; 
Let us keep the wheat and roses, 
Casting out the thorns and chaff; 
Let us find our sweetest comfort 
In the blessings of to-day, 
With a patient hand removing 
All the briers from the way. 


May Riley Smith. 


TO-MORROW 


Sip SOW action! can that hoary wisdom, 
Borne down with years, still doat upon to-morrow! 
The fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, 

The coward and the fool, condemned to lose 

An useless life in waiting for to-morrow, 

To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow, 

Till interposing death destroys the prospect. 

Strange that this general fraud from day to day 
Should fill the world with wretches, undetected! 
The soldier, lab’ring through a winter’s march, 
Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph; 

Still to the lover’s long-expecting arms 

To-morrow brings the visionary bride. 

But thou, too old to bear another cheat, 

Learn that the present hour alone is man’s. 


Samuel Johnson. 
From “Trene.” 


55 


LYRIC OF ACTION 


This poem exhorts us not to let the sense of past failure 
paralyze us from further effort. Even though our course has 
been one of folly or guilt, we may yet win success as shining 
as the brightness of the archangel Uriel who is spoken of in 
Revelation XIX, 17, as “standing in the sun”. With a will that 
defies circumstance, we must break the fetters of fear and start 
afresh. At the beginning of the Civil War the career of Ulysses 
S. Grant, a man at that time thirty-nine years old, had been 
such that he was regarded as a failure. In 1820 Charles Lamb, 
baffled successively in his efforts to write novels, poems, plays, 
criticisms that the public would read, was a mere clerk in the 
East India House. Yet Grant achieved a world-wide reputation 
as a general, and Lamb as an author. A vigorous start counts 
for much, but not for everything. A vigorous and courageous 
persistence, maintained amid discouragements and rebuffs, counts 
for infinitely more. 


IS the part of a coward to brood 
O’er the past that is withered and dead: 
What though the heart’s roses are ashes and dust? 
What though the heart’s music be fled? 
Still shine the great heavens o’erhead, 
Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul, 
“Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!” 


If the faults or the crimes of thy youth 
Are a burden too heavy to bear, 
What hope can re-bloom on the desolate waste 
Of a jealous and craven despair? 
Down, down with the fetters of fear! 
In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise, 
With the faith that illumes and the will that defies. 


“Too late!’ through God’s infinite world, 
From his throne to life’s nethermost fires, 
“Too late!’ is a phantom that flies at the dawn 
Of the soul that repents and aspires. 
If pure thou hast made thy desires, 
There’s no height the strong wings of immortals may 
gain 
Which in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in vain. 


56 


Then, up to the contest with fate, 
Unbound by the past, which is dead! 
What though the heart’s roses are ashes and dust? 
What though the heart’s music be fled? 
Still shine the fair heavens o’erhead; 
And sublime as the seraph who rules in the sun 
Beams the promise of joy when the conflict is won! 


Paul Hamilton Hayne. 


BREATHES THERE A MAN 


Edward Everett Hale makes effective use of this passage in 
his story The Man Without a Country. The central character 
of the story, Philip Nolan, had, when charged with implication 
in Burr’s conspiracy, declared with an oath that he wished he 
might never again hear the name of the United States. He 
was sentenced to semi-confinement on a man-of-war, and every 
precaution was taken that no word or symbol should ever remind 
him of his country. One day in reading aloud to some officers 
a new poem by Walter Scott he stumbled upon this passage. 
The scene which followed is one of the most tense and un- 
forgettable scenes in Hale’s story. 


REATHES there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 
This is my own, my native land! 
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 
From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim: 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentered all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 


Sir Walter Scott. 
57 


THE WHISTLER 


“One of the worst pests is the dinged fool who whistles in 
public places, street cars, busses, etc., to the annoyance of every 
one around him, A licking is none too good for him.” A Letter 
to the Editor. 


HISTLE, old chap; you just go on and 
whistle ; | 
Never you fret about kickers like him; 
Your heart’s as light as the down of a thistle; 
Who cares if grumblers are grouchy and 
grim? 
Go on and whistle; don’t mind what they say to 
you; 
Most of us thrill to your message of cheer; 
Fortune is good and the world’s looking gay to 
you? 
Go on and whistle; it’s pleasant to hear! 
Whistle, man, whistle—as light as a thistle; 
Go on and whistle; it’s bully to hear! 


Whistle, old fellow; you go on and whistle; 
What do we care if you sharp or you flat? 
Let the old bachelors burble and bristle; 
Who gives a whoop for such people as 
that? 
Go on and whistle—it proves there is Boy in 
you. 

Youth that has lasted for many a year, 
Give us the notes of the fun and the joy in you; 
Go on and whistle; it’s pleasant to hear; 
Whistle, man, whistle, as light as a thistle; 

Go on and whistle—it’s bully to hear! 


Whistle, old chap—you just go on and whistle; 
Give us your flutings of popular airs; 

Whistle in spite of the grouches who bristle; 
Whistle away all our worries and cares; 


58 


Something there is of the troubadour clan in 
you 
Warming our hearts with your melodies 
clear ; 
Toil is forgot as we hark to the Pan in you; 
Go on and whistle—it’s pleasant to hear; 
Whistle, man, whistle—as light as a thistle; 
Go on and whistle—it’s bully to hear ! 


Berton Braley. 
From“Things As They Are,” 
Copyright, 1916, 
George H. Doran Co., Publishers. 


THE ROAD 


The man who wastes to-day lamenting yesterday will waste 
to-morrow lamenting to-day. 


EAVE no sigh for things undone, 
For the prize you might have won; 
Don’t bewail the yester-sun ; 
All your yesterdays are gone— 
Gone! 


Are you ready for to-day? 

Roads are stretching far away; 
You will stumble, you will stray, 
You will have to pay your way— 
Pay! 


Mate thy staff and guide thy star; 
Bush or stone be not thy bar; 
How we fight 1s what we are; 
Let your aim be onward far— 
Far! 
Philip M. Raskin. 


From “When a Soul Sings,” 
Thomas Seltzer & Co. 


59 


ROOM! 


A sea-captain who steered amid straits and reefs when the 
wide ocean lay before him, would be thought insane. Yet the 
man who makes his spiritual voyages in cramped, shallow chan- 
nels, do we not regard him as normal and prudent? 


WILL hew great spaces for my soul, 
Hours of majesty, aisles of beauty ; 
Out of: the solid universe will I hew them 
That my perishing soul may pass through them, 
That my passionate spirit have room to grow, 
That the mind of me may not suffer so, 
That I faint not here ’mid the pitiful round of duty— 
I will hew great spaces, marvelous places, for my 
soul. 


I will hew great paths for my soul, 

Out of the shining ether, keen as quicksilver, solid 
as steel, 

To know what the Void may reveal. 

My soul that is shrivelling here on earth 

Must have fresh birth. 

That the claims of earth may not bind me, 

That death may not find me, 

I will hew great spaces, huge places of life for my 
soul, 

I will seek me a way no man has trod, 

T will blaze new trails to the heart of God. 

That my soul may walk wider ways than earth, 

My soul and the souls of the world— 

I will challenge the Void where the secrets of life 
are furled, 

I will cleave new paths, that all may have fresh birth. 


T will hew great windows for my soul, 

Channels of splendor, portals of release; 

Out of earth’s prison walls will I hew them, 

That my thundering soul may push through them; 
Through stratas of human strife and passion 

I will tunnel a way, I will carve and fashion 


60 


With the might of my soul’s intensity 

Windows fronting immensity, 

Towering out of Time. 

1 will breathe the air of another clime 

That my spirit’s pain may cease. 

That the beng of me have room to grow, 

That my eyes may meet God’s eyes and know, 

I will hew great windows, wonderful windows, 
measureless windows, for my soul. 


I will weave great melodies for my soul, 
Storms of harmony, hurricanes of feeling; 
Out of the cosmic rhythm will I choir them, 
Infinity’s breath shall inspire them 

And chorusing orbs in their wheeling. 

That the sadness of earth may not ‘numb me 
And grief overcome me, 

Here where terror and strife abound 

I will mount and mount on wings of sound: 
I will soar on symphonies of might, 

Lifted and carried 

Where whirlwinds are married 

To challenge the worlds in their flight. 

That earth may hear and rejoice 

I will summon the stars for their voice; 

T will marshal the music of manifold spheres, 
I will capture the chords of the thundering years, 
From the course where Aldebaran runs 

I will summon the suns. 


I will range the abysm from sun to sod, 

Spaces ringing and singing with God, 

To the uttermost bounds of being, 

Past earthly sense and seeing, 

Till my passionate spirit has found at last 

A splendid place in the splendid vast. 

I, I, the immeasurable I, greater than suns or stars 
or spaces, 

Born of Creation’s boundless places, 

I, who am perishing here on earth, 


61 


I will rend my way to a larger birth. 
Fetters and bars, I will shout my way through them; 
Planets and stars, like chaff will I strew them. 
That my spirit may hugely survive, 
For I am alive, alive! 
Angela Morgam. 


Permission of the Author 
From ‘‘The Hour Has Struck,”’ 
Dodd, Mead & Co. 


ON FILE 


Human nature should contain a cemetery for wunkindness 
and a graveyard for grudges. 


IF an unkind word appears, 

File the thing away. 

If some novelty in jeers, 
File the thing away. 

If some clever little bit 

Of a sharp and pointed wit, 

Carrying a sting with it— 
File the thing away. 


If some bit of gossip come, 
File the thing away. 

Scandalously spicy crumb, 
File the thing away. 

If suspicion comes to you 

That your neighbor isn’t true 

Let me tell you what to do— 
File the thing away. 


Do this for a little while, 
Then go out and burn the file. 


John Kendrick Bangs. 


From ‘Songs of Cheer.” 
Permission of the Author’s Estate, 


62 


THE LAST WORD 


If a man has to perish, he may at least fall, as Crockett did 
at the Alamo, with a circle of dead foes about him. 


REEP into thy narrow bed, 
Creep, and let no more be said! 

Vain thy onset! all stands fast. 

Thou thyself must break at last. 


Let the long contention cease! 

Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will! 
Thou art tired; best be still. 


They out-talk’d thee, hiss’d thee, tore thee? 
Better men fared thus before thee; 
Fired their ringing shot and pass’d. 
Hotly charged—and sank at last. 


Charge once more, then, and be dumb! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall, 

Find thy body by the wall! 


Matthew Arnold. 


POINT OF VIEW 


HEN earth seems dark with envy 
And hate and greed and wars, 
Remember—to the distant 
Inhabitant of Mars 
It flames upon their vision 
A star among the stars! 


Mary Sinton Leitch. 
From “The Waggon and the Star,” 
B. J. Brimmer Company. 


63 


THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM 


The man who knows not fear for himself may feel it in 
behalf of another. His love for wife or parent or child may 
be as the heel of Achilles, may make him vulnerable when 
otherwise no wound could hurt him. But to be apprehensive 
when those dear to us are threatened is not shameful. On the 
contrary, it is noble. 


HERE was a man, 

A Roman soldier, for some daring deed 
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low 
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, 
But generous, and brave, and kind. 

He had a son; it was a rosy boy, 

A little faithful copy of his sire, 

In face and gesture. From infancy, the child 
Had been his father’s solace and his care. 


Every sport 
The father shared and heightened. But at length, 
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned 
To fetters and to darkness. 


The captive’s lot, 
He felt in all its bitterness: the walls 
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh 
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and 

touched 

His jailer with compassion; and the boy, 
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled 
His father’s lingering hours, and brought a balm 
With his loved presence, that in every wound 
Dropped healing. But, in this terrific hour, 
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast 
Where he had been a cure. 


With earliest morn 
Of that first day of darkness and amaze, 
He came. The iron door was closed—for them 


64 


Never to open more! The day, the night 

Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate 
Impending o’er the city. Well they heard 

The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath, 

And felt its giddy rocking; and the air 

Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw 
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped 

The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake 
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell 
The dangers of their state. 


On his low couch 
The fettered soldier sank, and, with deep awe, 
Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye, 
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then, strove 
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile 
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep: 
His body burned with feverish heat; his chains 
Clanked loud, although he moved not; deep in earth 
Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds, 
Fearful and ominous, arose and died, 
Like the sad moanings of November’s wind, 
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled 
His blood that burned before; cold, clammy sweats 
Came o’er him; then anon, a fiery thrill 
Shot through his veins. Now, on his couch he shrunk 
And shivered as in fear; now, upright leaped, 
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, 
And longed to cope with death. 


He slept, at last, 
A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept 
Never to waken more! His hours are few, 
But terrible his agony. 


Soon the storm 
Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air 
Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung 
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed 
A moment as in sunshine—and was dark: 


65 


Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell, 
Dying away upon the dazzled eye 

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound 
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear. 


With intensest awe, 
The soldier’s frame was filled; and many a thought 
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, 
As underneath he felt the fevered earth 
Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls, 
Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not, 
While evils undefined and yet to come 
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless 

wound 

Fate had already given—Where, man of woe! 
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call’st 
His name in vain:—he cannot answer thee. 


Loudly the father called upon his child: 

No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously 

He searched their couch of straw ; with headlong haste 
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent, 
Groped darkling on the earth:—no child was there. 
Again he called: again, at farthest stretch 

Of his accursed fetters, till the blood 

Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes 
Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far, 
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch 
Though but his idol’s garment. Useless toil! 

Yet still renewed: still round and round he goes, 
And strains, and snatches, and with dreadful cries 
Calls on his boy. 


Mad frenzy fires him now. 
He plants against the wall his feet; his chain 
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away 
The deep-driven staple; yells and shrieks with rage: 
And, like a desert lion in the snare, 
Raging to break his toils,—to and fro bounds. 


66 


But see! the ground is opening; a blue light 
Mounts, gently waving,—noiseless ;—thin and cold 
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame; 

But by its luster, on the earth outstretched, 
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed, 

And, o’er his face serene, a darkened line 

Points out the lightning’s track. 


The father saw, 
And all his fury fled :—a dead calm fell 
That instant on him :—speechless—fixed—he stood, 
And with a look that never wandered, gazed 
Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes 
Were not yet closed,—and round those ruby lips 
The wonted smile returned. 


Silent and pale 
The father stands :—no tear is in his eye:— 
The thunders bellow ;—but he hears them not :— 
The ground lifts like a sea;—he knows it not :— 
The strong walls grind and gape:—the vaulted roof 
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind; 
See! he looks up and smiles; for death to him 
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace 
Be given, ’twere still a sweeter thing to die. 


It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground, 
At every swell, nearer and still more near 
Moves toward the father’s outstretched arm his boy. 
Once he has touched his garment :—how his eye 
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears! 
Ha, see! he has him now!—he clasps him round; 
Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks, 
That shaded his fine brow; looks in his eyes; 
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands; 
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont 
To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits 
Undreaded death. 


67 


And death came soon and swift 
And pangless. The huge pile sank down at once 
Into the opening earth. Walls—arches—roof— 
And deep foundation stones—all—mingling—fell! 


Edwin Atherstone. 


DOORS OF DARING 


There is that in human nature which resents the setting of 
limits. The Atlantic was uncrossable; Columbus crossed it. 
The North Pole was unattainable; Peary attained it. The air 
was inviolate; the Wright brothers conquered its sanctities. The 
Panama zone was uninhabitable for white men; Gorgas exter- 
minated the mosquito and thereby banished yellow fever. Mt. 
Everest is still unscaled; but its immunity has been challenged 
and some day will be overcome. 


HE mountains that inclose the vale 

With walls of granite, steep and high, 
Invite the fearless foot to scale 

Their stairway toward the sky. 


The restless, deep, dividing sea 

That flows and foams from shore to shore, 
Calls to its sunburned chivalry, 

“Push out, set sail, explore!” 


The bars of life at which we fret, 
That seem to prison and control, 

Are but the doors of daring, set 
Ajar before the soul. 


Say not, “Too poor,” but freely give; 
Sigh not, “Too weak,” but boldly try; 
You never can begin to live 
Until you dare to die. 
Henry van Dyke. 


From ‘Poems of Henry van Dyke,” 
Copyright, 1911, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 


COMPENSATION 
To have aspired highly is the surest consolation of defeat. 


ECAUSE I craved a gift too great 
For any prayer of mine to bring, 
To-day with empty hands I go; 
Yet must my heart rejoice to know 
I did not ask a lesser thing. 


Because the goal I sought lay far 
In cloud-hid heights, to-day my soul 
Goes unaccompanied of its own; 
Yet this shall comfort me alone, 

I did not seek a nearer goal. 


O gift ungained, O goal unwon! 
Still am I glad, remembering this, 
For all I go unsatisfied, 
I have kept faith with joy denied, 
Nor cheated life with cheaper bliss. 
Theodosta Garrison. 


From “The Earth Cry,” 
Mitchell Kennerley. 


PROCRASTINATION 


HUN delays, they breed remorse; 
Take thy time while time is lent thee, 
Creeping snails have weakest force; 
Fly their faults lest thou repent thee; 
Good is best when soonest wrought, 
Ling’ring labors come to naught ; 
Hoist up sail while gale doth last, 
Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure; 
Seek not time, when time is past, 
Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure ; 
After-wits are dear] bought, 
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. 
Robert Southwell, 


69 


TO THE MEN OF KENT 


_Kent is in southeastern England, the shire nearest the con- 
tinent. This sonnet was written when Napoleon was gathering 
forces for an invasion. 


ANGUARD of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 

Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 
Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
Now is the time to prove your hardiment! 
They from their fields can see the countenance 
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance 
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, 
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; 
Confirmed the charters that were yours before ;— 
No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; 
We all are with you now from shore to shore ;— 
Ye men of Kent, ’tis victory or death! 


William Wordsworth. 


INFLUENCE 


Once you prime the pump, the well yields its water freely. 


ROP a pebble in the water, 
And its ripples reach out far; 
And the sunbeams dancing on them 
May reflect them to a star. 


Give a smile to some one passing, 
Thereby make his morning glad; 

It may greet you in the evening 
When your own heart may be sad. 


Do a deed of simple kindness; 
Though its end you may not see, 
It may reach, like widening ripples, 
Down a long eternity. 
Joseph Morris. 


70 


IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT 
Kindness postponed is neglect. 


F I should die to-night, 

My friends would look upon my quiet face 
Before they laid it in its resting-place, 
And deem that death had left it almost fair; 
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, 
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, 
And fold my hands with lingering caress— 
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! 


If I should die to-night, 
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, 
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought; 
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said; 
Errands on which the willing feet had sped; 
The memory of my selfishness and pride, 
My hasty words, would all be put aside, 
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. 


If I should die to-night, 
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
Recalling other days remorsefully ; 
The eyes that chill me with averted glance 
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, 
And soften, in the old familiar way; 
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? 
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. 


Oh, friends, I pray to-night, 
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow— 
The way is lonely ; let me feel them now. 
Think gently of me; I’am travel-worn; 
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn, 
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! 
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
The tenderness for which I long to-night. 


Belle E. Sruth. 
fe fe 


TO THE MAN WHO FAILS 


“Human virtue,” said Robert E. Lee, “should be equal to human 
calamity.” By his upright and constructive course after the 
war he proved that it could. 


ET others sing to the hero who wins in the ceaseless 

fray, 

Who, over the crushed and fallen, pursueth his upward 
way; 

For him let them weave the laurel, to him be their pean 
sung, 

Whom the kindly fates have chosen, who are happy their 
loved among; 

But mine be a different message, some soul in its stress 
to reach; 

To bind, o’er the wound of failure, the balm of pitying 
speech ; 

To whisper: “Be up and doing, for courage at last 
prevails” — 

I sing—who have supped with Failure—I sing to the 
man who fails. 


I know how the gray cloud darkens, and mantles the soul 
in gloom; 

I know how the spirit hearkens to voices of doubt or of 
doom ; 

I know how the tempter mutters his terrible’ word, 
“Despair !” 

But the heart has its secret chamber, and I know that 
our God is there. 

Our years are as moments only; our failures He counts 
as naught; 

The stone that the builders rejected, perchance is the 
one that He sought. 

Mayhap, in the ultimate judgment, the effort alone avails, 

And the laurel of great achievement shall be for the man 
who fails. 


72 


We sow in the darkness only; but the Reaper shall reap 
in light; 

And the day of His perfect glory shall tell of the deeds 
of the night. 

We gather our gold, and store it, and the whisper is 
heard “Success!” 

But, tell me, ye cold, white sleepers, what were an 
achievement less? 

We struggle for fame, and win it; and, lo! like a fleeting 
breath, 

It is lost in the realm of silence, whose ruler and king 
is Death. 

Where are the Norseland heroes, the ghosts of a house- 
wife’s tales? 

I sing—for the Father heeds him—I sing to the man who 
fails. 


Oh, men, who are labelled “failures,” up, rise up! again, 
and do! 

Somewhere in the world of action is room; there is 
room for you. 

No failure was e’er recorded, in the annals of truthful 
men, 

Except of the craven-hearted who fails, nor attempts 
again, 

The glory is in the doing, and not in the trophy won; 

The walls that are laid in darkness may laugh to the kiss 


of the sun. 

Oh, weary and worn and stricken, oh, child of fate’s 
cruel gales! 

I sing—that it haply may cheer him—I sing to the man 
who fails. 


Alfred J. Waterhouse. 


73 


THE DIFFERENCE 


Any one may take up space by sitting in the seat of an auto- 
mobile. But only the fellow who turns on the gas, throws the 
machine in gear, and steers with some intelligence will travel 
very far. 


HE manager asked of a clerk (just his age) : 
‘How is business in your branch, as matters you 
gauge?” 
“Everything,” said the clerk as he stifled a yawn, 
“Is going on fairly.” “But does it go on?” 


In a mere shift of accent what differences lurk; 
One man was a manager, one was a clerk. 


The manager asked of the clerk (just his age): 
“Any problems confronting your branch at this stage?” 
“Yes, I’m lost in the woods, and it’s twilight, not dawn.” 
“The road that leads out is the road that leads on.” 


The mood of the worker is stamped on the work; 
One man was a manager, one was a clerk. 


St. Clair Adams. 


BUILD A LITTLE FENCE 


UILD a little fence of trust 

Around to-day ; 
Fill the space with loving work 

And therein stay, 
Look not between the shel’tring bars 

Upon to-morrow, 
But take whatever comes to thee 

Of joy and sorrow. 

Anonymous. 


74 


NOW 


Make the shoes you must walk with to-day rather than the 
wings you would fly with to-morrow. 


ISE! for the day is passing, 
And you lie dreaming on; 
The others have buckled their armor, 
And forth to the fight are gone: 
A place in the ranks awaits you, 
Each man has some part to play; 
The Past and the Future are nothing, 
In the face of the stern To-day. 


Rise from your dreams of the Future,— 
Of gaining some hard-fought field; 
Of storming some airy fortress, 
Or bidding some giant yield; 
Your Future has deeds of glory, 
Of honor (God grant it may!) 
But your arm will never be stronger, 
Or the need so great as To-day. 


Rise! if the Past detains you, 
Her sunshine and storms forget; 
No chains so unworthy to hold you 
As those of a vain regret: 
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever ; 
Cast her phantom arms away, 
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson 
Of a nobler strife To-day. 


Rise! for the day is passing; 
The sound that you scarcely hear 
Is the enemy marching to battle :— 
Arise! for the foe is here! 

Stay not to sharpen your weapons, 
Or the hour will strike at last, 
When from dreams of a coming battle, 
You may wake to find it past! 


Adelaide Anne Procter. 
75 


IF I WERE A VOICE 


Garfield defined a college as a log with Mark Hopkins on 
one end and a student on the other. So in all the relations of 
life that which counts most is a vital personality with loftiness 
of vision. 


F I were a Voice—a persuasive Voice— 
That could travel the wide world through, 
I would fly on the beams of the morning light 
And speak to men with a gentle might, 
And tell them to be true. 
I’d fly, I’d fly o’er land and sea, 
Wherever a human heart might be, 
Telling a tale, or singing a song, 
In praise of the Right—in blame of the Wrong. 


If I were a Voice—a consoling Voice— 
I'd fly on the wings of air; 

The home of Sorrow and Guilt I’d seek 

And calm and truthful words I’d speak, 
To save them from Despair. 

I'd fly, I'd fly o’er the crowded town, 

And drop, like the happy sunlight, down 
Into the hearts of suffering men, 
And teach them to rejoice again. 


If I were a Voice—a controlling Voice— 
I’d travel with the wind; 
And, whenever I saw the nations torn 
By warfare, jealousy or scorn, 
Or hatred of their kind, 
I’d fly, I'd fly, on the thunder crash, 
And into their blinded bosoms flash; 
And, all their evil thoughts subdued, 
I’d teach them a Christian Brotherhood. 


If I were a Voice—an immortal Voice— 
I’d speak in the people’s ear; 
And, whenever they shouted “Liberty,” 
Without deserving to be free, 
76 


I’d make their error clear. 
I'd fly, I'd fly, on the wings of day, 
Rebuking wrong on my world-wide way, 
And, making all the earth rejoice— 
If I were a Voice—an immortal Voice. 


If I were a Voice—a pervading Voice— 
I’d seek the kings of earth; 
I’d find them alone on their beds at night, . 
And whisper words that should guide them right, 
Lessons of priceless worth. 
I’d fly more swift than the swiftest bird, 
And tell them things they never heard— 
Truths which the ages for aye repeat, 
Unknown to the statesmen at their feet. 


Charles Mackay. 


IF ONE HAS FAILED 


F one has failed to reach the end he sought, 
If out of effort no great good is wrought, 
It is not failure, if the object be 
The betterment of man; for all that he 
Had done and suffered is but gain 
To those who follow seeking to attain 
The end he sought. His efforts they 
Will find are guide posts on the way 
To that accomplishment which he, 
For some wise purpose, could not be 
The factor in. There is a need 
Of unsuccessful effort; ’tis the seed 
Whose mission is to lie beneath 
The soil that grows the laurel wreath, 
And he is not unworthy who 
Falls struggling manfully to do 
What must be done, in dire distress, 
That others may obtain success. 


William J. Lampton. 
77 


BUT 


A great deal depends on the relative positions of things. Mr. 
Micawber finds it so of a sixpence: “Annual income twenty 
pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result hap- 
piness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure 
twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.” 


HERE’S no escaping this word but; 
All questions are two-sided ; 
There’d be no way to turn things round 
If but were not provided. 
Yet wisely must we use this word 
So nimbly acrobatic 
Or else the dreary side of things 
We'll make the more emphatic. 


A youngster has done wrong, let’s say, 
And you must needs reprove him; 
In kindness you recount good traits 
Of his and deeply move him; 
Then you say but—he, feeling tricked, 
Forgets with indignation 
The praise which, had it followed blame, 
Had been an inspiration. 


You must describe a friend, let’s say; 
You laud deserts in dozens 
And then shamefacedly admit 
The faults which are their cousins. 
Of virtues or of frailties which 
Will make the deep impression? 
Out with the wrong first; then say but; 
Let merits end the session. 


An opportunity presents 
Itself for your decision ; 
See you the vision first, then risks, 
Or risks and then the vision? 


78 


Use caution, face the problems, not 
In moods of cowed negation, 

But in such wise as will insure 
Achievement and creation. 


Make but the guidepost where the road 
Swerves off from tears to laughter ; 
Before it place faults, doubts, and dread, 
Place cheer and courage after; 
For whether your bright dreams sink down 
Or as great deeds leap starward 
Depends on whether you turn back 
Or gallantly face forward. 

St. Clair Adams. 


GOD’S WILL FOR YOU AND ME 


UST to be tender, just to be true, 
Just to be glad the whole day through, 
Just to be merciful, just to be mild, 
Just to be trustful as a child, 
Just to be gentle and kind and sweet, 
Just to be helpful with willing feet, 
Just to be cheery when things go wrong, 
Just to drive sadness away with a song, 
Whether the hour is dark or bright, 
Just to be loyal to God and right, 
Just to believe that God knows best, 
Just in his promises ever to rest— 
Just to let love be our daily key, 
That is God’s will for you and me. 


Anonymous. 


79 


PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE 


Be yourself; think your own thoughts; speak your own words; 
achieve your own destiny; do not make yourself a mere imitator 
of somebody else. Some one has said: “There are no two 
people alike; if there are, one of them is of no account.” 


OYAGER upon life’s sea, 
To yourself be true; 
And where’er your lot may be, 
Paddle your own canoe. 
Never, though the winds may rave, 
Falter nor look back, 
But upon the darkest wave 
Leave a shining track. 


Nobly dare the wildest storm, 
Stem the hardest gale, 

Brave of heart and strong of arm, 
You will never fail. 

When the world is cold and dark, 
Keep an end in view, 

And toward the beacon mark 
Paddle your own canoe, 


Every wave that bears you on 
To the silent shore, 

From its sunny source has gone 
To return no more: 

Then let not an hour’s delay 
Cheat you of your due; 

But while it is called to-day, 
Paddle your own canoe. 


If your birth denied you wealth, 
Lofty state, and power, 
Honest fame and hardy health 
Are a better dower; 
But if these will not suffice, 
Golden gain pursue, 
80 


And to win the glittering prize, 
Paddle your own canoe. 


Would you wrest the wreath of fame 
From the hand of Fate? 

Would you write a deathless name 
With the good and great? 

Would you bless your fellowmen? 
Heart and soul imbue 

With the holy task, and then 
Paddle your own canoe. 


Would you crush the tyrant Wrong, 
In the world’s fierce fight? 

With a spirit brave and strong, 
Battle for the Right; 

And to break the chains that bind 
The many to the few— 

To enfranchise slavish mind, 
Paddle your own canoe. 


Nothing great is lightly won, 
Nothing won is lost— 

Every good deed nobly done, 
Will repay the cost; 

Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, 
All you will to do; 

But if you succeed, you must 
Paddle your own canoe. 


Sarah K. Bolton. 


BEARING SORROW 


HE human race are sons of sorrow born; 
And each must have his portion. Vulgar minds 
Refuse, or crouch beneath their load; the brave 
Bear theirs without repining. 
James Thomson. 


81 


A WATCHWORD 


A man proposed to his wife an arrangement by which they 
could get along amicably together: she was to have her way 
when they agreed; he was to have his when they disagreed. 
Unless we assert ourselves, courage and perseverance will make 
an equally one-sided arrangement with us: they will be on hand 
when we don’t want them, and absent when we do. 


HEN you find a certain lack 
In the stiffness of your back 
At a threatened fierce attack, 
Just the hour 
That you need your every power, 
Look a bit 
For a thought to baffle it. 
Just recall that every knave, 
Every coward, can be brave, 
Till the time 
That his courage should be prime— 
Then ’tis fled. 
Keep your head! 
What a folly ’tis to lose it 
Just the time you want to use it! 


When the ghost of some old shirk 
Comes to plague you, and to lurk 
In your study or your work, 
lene sire) bat 

Like enough will settle it. 
Knowledge is a worthy prize; 
Knowledge comes to him who tries— 
Whose endeavor 

Ceases never. 

Everybody would be wise 

As his neighbor, 

Were it not that they who labor 
For the trophy creep, creep, creep, 
While the others lag or sleep; 

And the sun comes up some day 
To behold one on his way 


82 


Past the goal 

Which the soul 

Of another has desired, 

But whose motto was, “I’m tired.” 


When the task of keeping guard 

Of your heart— 

Keeping weary watch and ward 

Of the part 

You are called upon to play 

Every day— 

Is becoming dry and hard, 

Conscience languid, virtue irksome, 

Good behavior growing worksome,— 

Think this thought: 

Doubtless everybody could, 

Doubtless everybody would, 

Be superlatively good, 

Were it not 

That it’s harder keeping straight 

Than it is to deviate; 

And to keep the way of right, 

You must have the pluck to fight. 
Edmund Vance Cooke. 


From ‘“‘A Patch of Pansies,”’ 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 


EXISTENCE MAY BE BORNE 


XISTENCE may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolate bosoms: mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence,—not bestow’d 
In vain should such examples be; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear,—it is but for a day. 


Lord Byron. 
83 


THE SEEKER 


Struggle and progress are the law of life. We can never 
be satished with what we have nor with what we acquire. The 
restless longing to achieve something better drives us relent- 
lessly on. We achieve this something new, recognize it as 
superior to anything we have yet possessed, but do not find it 
the perfection it seemed. And so we discard it and reach out 
for that which promises more, always baffled of the permanently 
satisfying, but always struggling upward. 


HE creeds he wrought of dream and thought 
Fall from him at the touch of life, 
His old gods fail him in the strife— 
Withdrawn, the heavens he sought! 


Vanished, the miracles that led, 

The cloud at noon, the flame at night; 
The vision that he wing’d and sped 

Falls backward, baffled, from the height; 


Yet in the wreck of these he stands 
Upheld by something grim and strong; 
Some stubborn instinct lifts a song 

And nerves him, heart and hands: 


He does not dare to call it hope ;— 
It is not aught that seeks reward— 
Nor faith, that up some sunward slope 

Runs aureoled to meet its lord; 


It touches something elder far 
Than faith or creed or thought in man, 
It was ere yet these lived and ran 

Like light from star to star; 


It touches that stark, primal need 
That from unpeopled voids and vast 
Fashioned the first crude, childish creed,— 
And still shall fashion, till the last! 


84 


For one word is the tale of men: 
They fling their icons to the sod, 
And having trampled down a god 

They seek a god again! 


Stripped of his creeds inherited, 
Bereft of all his sires held true, 
Amid the wreck of visions dead 
He thrills at touch of visions new. ... 


He wings another Dream for flight... . 
He seeks beyond the outmost dawn 
A god he set there . . . and, anon. 
Drags that god from the height! 


But aye from ruined faiths and old 
That droop and die, fall bruised seeds; 
And when new flowers and faiths unfold 
They’re lovelier flowers, they’re kindlier creeds. 


Don Marqus. 
From “Dreams and Dust,”’ 
Doubleday, Page & Co. 


WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS 


O each his sufferings: all are men, 
Condemned alike to groan; 
The tender for another’s pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more :—where ignorance is bliss, 

_ °Tis folly to be wise! 
Thomas Gray. 


From “On a Distant 
Prospect of Eton College.” 


85 


THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER 


This poem echoes the famous saying of Sir Humphrey Gilbert 
just before he lost his life in a shipwreck: “We are as near 
to heaven by sea as by land.” 


E were crowded in the cabin, 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, 
It was midnight on the waters, 
And a storm was on the deep. 


’Tis a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 
‘And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, “Cut away the mast!” 


So we shuddered there in silence,— 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring 
And the breakers talked with death. 


‘As thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy with his prayers, 
“We are lost!” the captain shouted, 
As he staggered down the stairs. 


But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand, 

“TIsn’t God upon the ocean, 
Just the same as on the land?” 


Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spake in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 


James T. Fields. 


86 


A SONG OF GLADNESS 


We don’t all have tuneful voices, but we all may have tuneful 


souls. 


ACH little day 
That slips away 
And finds for thee no pleasure, 
That steals along 
Without a song, 
Is just a wasted treasure. 


The sands that pass 

Through the hour glass 
And find thee in repining, 

Mark the lost hours. 

The freshest flowers 
Blow when the sun is shining. 


Thou shalt not grope 
For the lost hope 
Through darkness dim, unending. 
Ne’er vain regret 
Succeeded yet 
A broken thread in mending. 


The chance that’s lost, 
Let not the cost 
Be flowing tears and sighing, 
When countless more 
From life’s vast store 
Are to be had for trying. 


So put away 
Thy cares to-day, 
And cease thy fate reviling; 
For Chance eludes 
The soul that broods, 
And courts the soul that’s smiling. 


James W. Foley. 


From “The Voices of Song,” 
E. P. Dutton & Co. 


87 


THEN AG’IN 


Some people have the knack of interpreting the evidence to 
suit themselves. A vaudeville performer was explaining the 
occurrences of the evening. “The man ahead of me, a chap 
named Harry, was poor, frightfully poor. The crowd simply 
wouldn’t stand for him and their hisses drove him from the 
stage. Then my turn came, and when I first went on, the crowd 
listened patiently enough. But after a while, do you know, they 
began to hiss poor Harry again.” 


IM BOWKER, he said ef he’d had a fair show, 
And a big enough town for his talents to grow, 
And the least bit assistance in hoein’ his row, 
Jim Bowker, he said, 
He’d filled the world full of the sound of his name, 
An’ clim the top round in the ladder of fame; 
It may have been so; 
I dunno; 
Jest so it might been, 
Then ag’in— 


But he had tarnal luck—everythin’ went ag’in him, 
The arrers er fortune they allus ‘ud pin him; 
So he didn’t get no chance to show off what was in him, 
Jim Bowker, he said, 
Ef he’d had a fair show, you couldn’t tell where he’d come, 
An’ the feats he’d a-done, and the heights he’d a-clumb— 
It may have been so; 
I dunno; 
Jest so it might been, 
Then ag’in— 


But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less, 
Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success, 
An’ give fortune the blame for all our distress, 

As Jim Bowker, he said. 
If it hadn’ been for luck an’ misfortune an’ sich, 


88 


We might a-been famous, an’ might a-been rich, 
It might be jest so; 
I dunno; 
Jest so it might been, 
Then ag’in— 
Sam Walter Foss. 


From “Back Country Poems,” 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


THE DESERTER 


The man who bids death hasten is like the Irishman who 
fell out of a hotel window, caught on some telephone wires, 
after a moment turned loose, and dropped heavily to the earth. 
When asked why he did not hold to the wires, he explained: 
“T was afraid they would break.” 


LINDEST and most frantic prayer, 
Clutching at a senseless boon, 

His that begs, in mad despair, 
Death to come ;—he comes so soon! 


Like a reveler that strains 

Lip and throat to drink it up— 
The last ruby that remains, 

One red droplet in the cup, 


Like a child that, sullen, mute, 

Sulking spurns, with chin on breast, 
Of the Tree of Life the fruit, 

His gift of whom he is the guest, 


Outcast on the thither shore, 
Open scorn to him shall give 
Souls that heavier burdens bore: 
“See the wretch that dared not live!” 


Edward Rowland Sill. 


. From ‘Complete Poems,” 
_ Houghton Mifflin Co. 


89 


EXCELSIOR 


Longfellow was inspired to write this poem by the motto on 
the shield of the state of New York. He has explained that 
his purpose was “to display, in a series of pictures, the life of 
a man of genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, 
heedless of all warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish 
his purpose. His motto is Excelsior, ‘higher’. He passes through 
the Alpine village—through the rough, cold paths of the world 
—where the peasants cannot understand him, and where the 
watchword is an ‘unknown tongue’. He disregards the happiness 
of domestic peace and sees the glaciers—his fate—before him. 
He disregards the warning of the old man’s wisdom and the 
fascinations of woman’s love. He answers to all, ‘Higher 
yet!’ The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of 
religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated 
prayer mingles the sound of his voice, telling them there is 
something higher than forms and ceremonies. Filled with these 
aspirations, he perishes; without having reached the perfection 
he longed for; and the voice heard in the air is the promise of 
immortality and progress ever upward.” 


HE shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth who bore, ’mid snow and ice, 
A banner with a strange device, 
Excelsior! 


His brow was sad; his eye beneath, 

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 

And like a silver clarion rung 

The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 


In happy homes he saw the light 

Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 


“Try not the Pass!” the old man said; 
“Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide! 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior! 


gO 


4? 


“Oh stay,” the maiden said, “and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!’ 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 


“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! 

Beware the awful avalanche!” 

This was the peasant’s last Good-night, 

A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 


At break of day, as heavenward 

The pious monks of Saint Bernard 

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 


A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 


There in the twilight cold and gray, 

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


NO WORD FOR FEAR 


EATH stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear; 
Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 


Walter Savage Landor. 
QI 


NOT YET, MY SOUL 


In a famous painting Death touches an artist who is hard at 
work on his unfinished masterpiece. The artist looks round 
protestingly, as if to say: “Do not disturb me now. My work— 
I must finish my work.” 


OT yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert, 
Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze 
And the bright face of day, thy dalliance hadst; 
Where to thine ear first sang the enraptured birds; 
Where love and thou that lasting bargain made. 
The ship rides trimmed, and from the eternal shore 
Thou hearest airy voices; but not yet 
Depart, my soul, not yet awhile depart. 


Freedom is far, rest far. Thou art with life 
Too closely woven, nerve with nerve intwined; 
Service still craving service, love for love, 
Love for dear love, still suppliant with tears. 
Alas, not yet thy human task is done! 

A bond at birth is forged; a debt doth lie 
Immortal on immortality. It grows— 

By vast rebound it grows, unceasing growth; 
Gift upon gift, alms upon alms, upreared, 
From man, from God, from nature, till the soul 
At that so huge indulgence stands amazed. 


Leave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor leave 
Thy debts dishonored, nor thy place desert 

Without due service rendered. For thy life, 

Up, spirit, and defend that fort of clay, 

Thy body, now beleaguered; whether soon 

Or late she fall; whether to-day thy friends 

Bewail thee dead or, after years, a man 

Grown old in honor and the friend of peace, 
Contend, my soul, for moments and for hours; 
Each is with service pregnant; each reclaimed 

Is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign 

As when a captain rallies to the fight 


Q2 


His scattered legions, and beats ruin back, 

He, on the field, encamps, well pleased in mind. 
Yet surely him shall fortune overtake, 

Him smite in turn, headlong his ensigns drive; 
And that dear land, now safe, to-morrow fall. 
But he, unthinking, in the present good 

Solely delights, and all the camps rejoice. 


Robert Louis Stevenson. 
From ‘‘Poems,’’ 
Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


THE ENDLESS BATTLE 


A man suspended a sledgehammer from a tree in front of 
his house. One morning as he started off to work he noticed 
a billy goat taking a run, colliding head-on with the sledge- 
hammer, and then backing up to butt it again on the rebound. 
When the man came home at nightfall, he could see nothing 
left of the billy goat except the tip of its tail, but this was 
maintaining the battle as furiously as ever. 


HERE is no hope, and yet I keep on fighting. 
There is no chance, and yet I fight the more. 
Fate’s holocaust is loosed against me, blighting 
My dream of triumph that I held of yore; 
Sick am I, sick unto the very core 
Of heavy wrongs there is no way of righting, 
Yea, J am weary of the battle roar 
Beneath black skies no sun is ever lighting. 


I see no gleam of victory alluring, 

No chance of splendid booty or of gain, 
If I endure I must go on enduring 

And my reward for bearing pain—is pain; 
Yet, though the hope, the thrill, the zest are gone, 
Something within me keeps me fighting on! 


Berton Braley. 
From “A Banjo at Armageddon,” 
Copyright, 1917, 
orge H. Doran Co., Publishers. 


93 


NIGHT THOUGHTS 


The following lines are given as they appeared in Father 
Ryan’s paper, the Banner of the South. In his collected poems 
they are called “The Rosary of My Tears,” and the expression 
“brave heart” in the last stanza is changed to “lone heart.” 

“Tf a man states in your hearing,’ General Sheridan once 
said, “that he went into his first battle without a tremor, give 
him my compliments and tell him he’s a liar.’ The courage 
which overcomes fear was what the soldier most valued. The 
courage which overcomes depression is perhaps nobler still. 
Father Ryan had much to discourage him. To enter the priest- 
hood required of him that he part forever from the girl he 
loved. To sadden his later years was the failure of the Southern 
cause in which he had so ardently believed. But always his 
nature was sunny and magnanimous. He was once asked 
whether, as a Confederate chaplain, he would perform the burial 
service for a dead Northern soldier. “Certainly,” said he, his 
ae twinkling ; “T’d perform it gladly for ten thousand of 
them. 


OME reckon their age by years, 
Some measure their life by art,— 
But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, 
And their life, by the moans of their heart. 


The dials of earth may show 
The length—not the depth of years; 

Few or many they come, few or many they go, 
But our time is best measured by tears. 


Ah! not by the silver gray 
That creeps through the sunny hair, 

And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, 
And not by the furrows the fingers of care, 


On forehead and face, have made: 
Not so do we count our years; 

Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. 


For the young are oft-times old, 
Though their brow be bright and fair; 


94 


While their blood beats warm, their heart lies cold— 
O’er them the springtime, but winter is there. 


And the old are oft-times young, 
When their hair is thin and white; 

And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, 
And they laugh, for their cross was light. 


But bead by bead I tell 
The rosary of my years; 

From a cross to a cross they lead,—’tis well! 
And they’re blest with a blessing of tears. 


Better a day of strife 
Than a century of sleep; 

Give me instead of a long stream of life, 
The tempests and tears of the deep. 


A thousand joys may foam 
On the billows of all the years; 

But never the foam brings the brave heart home— 
It reaches the haven through tears. 


Father Ryan. 


FORBEARANCE 


AST thou named all the birds without a gun? 
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? 

At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse? 
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? 
And loved so well a high behavior, 
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, 
Nobility more nobly to repay? 
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
95 


SPEECH BEFORE HARFLEUR 


In this passage King Henry the Fifth of England is inciting 
his soldiers to renewed attack upon a walled city. 


NCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead! 
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility: 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard-favor’d rage; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 
Let it pry through the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it 
As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swell’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To his full height! On, on you noblest English! 
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof; 
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 
And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument. 
Dishonor not your mothers; now attest 
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; 
For there is none of you so mean and base 
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: 
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge 
Cry “God for Harry! England and Saint George!” 
William. Shakespeare. 
96 


VIKING-THROES 


The viking, putting adventurously forth on uncharted seas, 
must have valor and purpose. But if he is to know manhood 
in its fullness he must have love too, must maintain love un- 
coarsened by the labor and conflict through which he will pass. 


IFE’S a Battle, full of stress, 
Full of Change, 
Struggle, Combat, Weariness, 
Circling range— 
Be limbs and hearts sore heavy, yet 
Foe on foe is set. 


Give me fingers for the Fight 
Keen and strong; 

Give a Mind that swerves no mite 
*Mid the Throng; 

Beget me Valor, stiffly-grown, 
Hewn to stand alone. 


Grant me Virtue so to be, 

So to dare, 

That though all may faint or flee 
—Howsoe’er 

The Fight may turn—I yet shall stand 
Firm in Eye and Hand. 


Let some Purpose through my tears 
Gleam and glow, 

Ah! let not the ruining Years 

Full of woe, 

Engulf them in their dim embrace 
That high spectral Grace. 


Yet, all Boon of boons above, 

This I crave, 

Let a tender ample Love 

My Spirit save 

Forth from the harsh ungentle chains 
Fight so oft attains. 


Darrell Figgis. 
From “A Vision of Life,’ 
The John Lane Co. 


97 


THE OTHER SIDE OF IT 


To admit that one may be wrong and his adversary right, 
is the essence of wisdom and the ultimate proof of courage. 


E must have faith in ourselves, 
And we must have faith in our cause; 
A basic and sturdy self-trust 
Is one of our being’s laws; 
But we should have humbleness too, 
And to charity hold tight; 
For despite our sure dreams 
And despite all that seems, 
It may be the other chap’s right— 
Heigho, were the other chap right! 


The world is exceedingly large 
And problems are very complex; 
And we see but as stokers see 
Who in darkness toil below decks; 
Of nothing at all are we sure, 
On our wisdom rests ever a blight. 
Does that word “wisdom”’ fit 
Unless we admit 
That possibly the other chap’s right ?>— 
Quite possibly the other chap’s right? 


Though all questions have two sides at least, 
Though to truth there is no single door, 
Naught but courage can candidly say 
That a rival may have the true ore. 

When he tells us we’re human and frail 
And in error, we take sullen fright 
And bluster and shout 

And knock things about; 

None the less he’s conceivably right— 
Yes, perhaps the other chap’s right. 


St. Clair Adams: 
98 


ALL’S WELL 


You must expect battles on your journey through life. “And 
if you fall,” is Charles Kingsley’s exhortation,—“why, arise 
again! Get up, and go on: you may be sorely bruised and soiled 
with your fall, but is that any reason for lying still, and giving 
up the struggle cowardly?” 


OW fared the fight with thee to-day? 
Not well? Ah, nay, 

Thou hast not lost; thou can’st not lose, 

However much they tear and bruise 

The panting breast, the straining thews 
Which are thy spirit’s citadel, 

If thou and Faith, upon the walls, 

Are comrades still when darkness falls. 
Rest now! In sleep thy veins shall swell 
With Hope’s new wine; and like a bell 

From valleys deep heard on the height, 

Thy ‘leaguered soul, throughout the night, 
Shall call to thee: ‘‘All’s well!” 


It is thyself alone that may 

Thyself betray. 

Arise again! Arise and fight! 

God’s smile is in the morning light; 

Lift thou thy banner brave and bright 
Above thy spirit’s citadel! 

What matter if its fall be sure? 

The pilgrim soul thy walls immure, 

Clinging the wings of Azrael, 

In face of all the hordes of hell, 
Shall take, full-armed, its homeward flight, 
And o’er thy ruins, from the height, 

Shall call to thee: ‘‘All’s well!” 


I. A. Daly. 
From ‘Songs of Wedlock,” and “Canzoni,” 
Copyrighted by 
Harcourt, Brace & Co. 


99 


BRUCE AND THE SPIDER 


If one swallow does not make a summer or one advantage 
ultimate success, neither does one rebuff mean a permanent down- 
fall. Charleston was destroyed by an earthquake, Chicago by 
a fire, San Francisco by both. Yet each of these cities rose 
from destruction greater than before. 


OR Scotland’s and for freedom’s right 
The Bruce his part had played, 
In five successive fields of fight 
Been conquered and dismayed; 
Once more against the English host 
His band he led, and once more lost 
The meed for which he fought; 
And now from battle, faint and worn, 
The homeless fugitive forlorn 
A hut’s lone shelter sought. 


And cheerless was that resting-place 

For him who claimed a throne: 
His canopy, devoid of grace, 

The rude, rough beams alone; 
The heather couch his only bed,— 
Yet well I ween had slumber fled 

From couch of eider-down! 
Through darksome night till dawn of day, 
Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay 

Of Scotland and her crown. 


The sun rose brightly, and its gleam 
Fell on that hapless bed, 
And tinged with light each shapeless beam 
Which roofed the lowly shed; 
When, looking up with wistful eye, 
The Bruce beheld a spider try 
His filmy thread to fling 
From beam to beam of that rude cot; 
And well the insect’s toilsome lot 
Taught Scotland’s future king. 


I0O 


Six times his gossamery thread 
The wary spider threw; 
In vain the filmy line was sped, 
For powerless or untrue 
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled 
The patient insect, six times foiled, 
And yet unconquered still ; 
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, 
Saw him prepare once more to try 
His courage, strength, and skill. 


One effort more, his seventh and last— 
The hero hailed the sign !— 
And on the wished-for beam hung fast 

That slender, silken line! 
Slight as it was, his spirit caught 
The more than omen, for his thought 
The lesson well could trace, 
Which even “he who runs may read,” 
That Perseverance gains its meed, 
And Patience wins the race. 


Bernard Barton. 


WEALTH 


O purchase heaven has gold the power ? 
Can gold remove the mortal hour? 

In life can love be bought with gold? 

Are friendship’s pleasures to be sold? 
No—all that’s worth a wish—a thought, 
Fair Virtue gives unbrib’d, unbought. 
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind, 

Let nobler views engage thy mind. 


Samuel Johnson. 


IOI 


TO-DAY 


We should throw ourselves into the work of to-day as the 
negro who had seen a ghost threw himself into the effort to 
escape. A jackrabbit scurried down the path before him in 
his flight. “Git out o’ de way, Mr. Rabbit,’ he besought. “Git 
out o’ de way, and let somebody run dat kim run.” 


ITH every rising of the sun 
Think of your life as just begun. 


The Past has cancelled and buried deep 
All yesterdays. There let them sleep. 


Concern yourself with but To-day. 
Grasp it, and teach it to obey 


Your will and plan. Since time began 
To-day has been the friend of man. 


You and To-day! A soul sublime 
And the great heritage of time. 


With God Himself to bind the twain, 
Go forth, brave heart! Attain! Attain! 


Anonymous. 


AN IMMORTAL GUEST 


HE soul on earth is an immortal guest, 
Compell’d to starve at an unreal feast; 
A spark, which upward tends by Nature’s force; 
A stream diverted from its Parent source; 
A drop dissever’d from the boundless Sea; 
A moment, parted from Eternity; 
A pilgrim panting for the rest to come; 
An exile, anxious for his native Home. 


Hannah More. 
102 


A LEAP FOR LIFE 


Sometimes the hazardous course is the only safe one. Sol 
Smith, the theatrical man of pioneer days, founded in his early 
manhood a newspaper in Cincinnati. Some of the things he 
printed were offensive to people, in consequence of which fact 
he had several fights. On one occasion he was attacked by a 
man twice his weight. He was badly scared. But convinced 
that he must not let his opponent hit him, he proceeded to knock 
the man down each time he attempted to do so. Perhaps the 
plan is to be recommended. 


LD Ironsides at anchor lay, 
In the harbor of Mahon; 
A dead calm rested on the bay— 
The waves to sleep had gone; 
When little Jack, the captain’s son, 
With gallant hardihood, 
Climbed shroud and spar—and then upon 
The main-truck rose and stood! 


A shudder ran through every vein— 
All eyes were turned on high! 
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, 
Between the sea and sky! 

No hold had he above—below, 
Alone he stood in air! 

At that far height none dare to go— 
No aid could reach him there. 


We gazed—but not a man could speak !— 
With horror all aghast 

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, 
We watched the quivering mast. 

The atmosphere grew thick and hot, 
And of a lurid hue, 

As, riveted unto the spot, 
Stood officer and crew. 


The father came on deck—He gasped, 
“O, God, Thy will be done!” 


103 


Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 
And aimed it at his son! 

“Jump far out, boy! into the wave! 
Jump, or I fire!” he said: 

“That only chance your life can save! 
Jump—jump, boy!’—He obeyed. 


He sank—he rose—he lived—he moved— 
He for the ship struck out! 
On board we hailed the lad beloved 
With many a manly shout. 
His father drew, in silent joy, 
Those wet arms round his neck, 
Then folded to his heart the boy, 
And fainted on the deck! 


George Pope Morris. 


RICHES 


UCH learning shows how little mortals know; 
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy: 


At best, it babies us with endless toys, 

And keeps us children till we drop to dust. 
As monkeys at a mirror stand amaz’d, 

They fail to find what they so plainly see; 
Thus men, in shining riches, see the face 

Of happiness, nor know it is a shade; 

But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again, 
And wish, and wonder it is absent still. 


Edward Young. 


104 


KEEP A-PLUGGIN’ AWAY 


Dazzy Vance is thought of as a brilliant pitcher, but brilliance 
is not the quality upon which his fame in baseball has been built. 
Six times he went up to the major leagues and six times he was 
sent back to the minors. Any man of heart less stout would 
have given up trying. But the seventh time he went up, he 
stuck. By winning twenty-eight games in a single season, and 
by almost capturing the championship for a mediocre team, 
Brooklyn, he in 1924 earned the prize for being the best all- 
round player in the National League. 


| ie E a humble little motto 
That is homely, though it’s true,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
It’s a thing when I’ve an object 
That I always try to do,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
When you’ve rising storms to quell, 
When opposing waters swell, 
It will never fail to tell,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 


If the hills are high before 
And the paths are hard to climb, 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
And remember that successes 
Come to him who bides his time,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
From the greatest to the least, 
None are from the rule released. 
Be thou toiler, poet, priest, 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 


Delve away beneath the surface, 
There is treasure farther down,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
Let the rain come down in torrents, 
Let the threat’ning heavens frown, 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
105 


When the clouds have rolled away, 
There will come a brighter day 
All your labor to repay,— 

Keep a-pluggin’ away. 


There'll be lots of sneers to swallow, 
There'll be lots of pain to bear,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
If you’ve got your eye on heaven, 
Some bright day you’ll wake up there,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
Perseverance still is king; 
Time its sure reward will bring; 
Work and wait unwearying,— 
Keep a-pluggin’ away. 
Paul Laurence Dunbar. 


From “Complete Poems,” 
Dodd, Mead & Co. 


SHERIDAN’S RIDE 


This piece and the two that follow arose out of our Civil 
War. In two or three passages, indeed, the closeness to that 
great conflict is shown in the willingness of the authors to “call 
names”. But we should disregard the bitterness and think only 
of the heroism. Sheridan’s Ride is based upon a striking 
historic incident, which it renders spiritedly. 


P from the South, at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 


And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon’s bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 


106 


The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 


But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good, broad highway leading down: 
And there, through the flush of the morning light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 
As if he knew the terrible need, 
He stretched away with his utmost speed; 
Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 


Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering 
south, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 


Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire; 

But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 


The first that the general saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 
What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, 
Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 


107 


He dashed down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 
because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was 
gray ; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, 

He seemed to the whole great army to say: 

“T have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester town to save the day!” 

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, 

There, with the glorious general’s name, 

Be it said, in letter both bold and bright: 

“Here is the steed that saved the day 

By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester—twenty miles away!” 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 


From “Poems,” 
J. B. Lippincott Co. 


BARBARA FRIETCHIE 


The authenticity of the incident here related has been strongly 
questioned. But the supposed deed of Barbara was actually 
matched, again and again, by the heroism of both Northern 
wormen and Southern. 


P from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 


The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 


Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 


108 


Fair as the garden of the Lord 
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 


On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; 


Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 


Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 


Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 


Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 


Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
She took up the flag the men hauled down; 


In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 


Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 


Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 


“Halt !’—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
“Fire !’—out blazed the rifle-blast. 


It shivered the window, pane and sash; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 


Quick as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 


10g 


She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 


“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country’s flag,” she said. 


A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 


The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman’s deed and word; 


“Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said. 


All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet: 


All day long the free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 


Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 


And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 


Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, 
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 


Honor to her! and let a tear 
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier. 


Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 


Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 


‘And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town! 


John Greenleaf Whittier. 
110 


LITTLE GIFFEN 


This poem illustrates the fidelity of the poorer classes in the 
South to the Confederate cause. The story it contains is almost 
literally true. The boy Isaac Giffen, son of an East Tennessee 
blacksmith, was terribly wounded, carried to a hospital, and 
thence taken to Ticknor’s home near Columbus, Georgia. Ticknor 
was a country doctor, and in his household the boy was nursed 
back to life. Thereupon young Giffen joined Johnston’s army 
in the battles around Atlanta, in one of which he was killed. 


‘Oe of the focal and foremost fire— 
Out of the hospital’s walls as dire— 

Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene— 

Eighteenth battle and he sixteen— 
Spectre, such as you seldom see 

Little Giffen of Tennessee. 


Take him and welcome, the surgeons said, 
Not the Doctor can help the dead !— 

So we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet in our summer air, 
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head! 


And we watched the war with abated breath 
Skeleton boy against skeleton death !— 
Months of torture how many such!— 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch,— 
And still a glint in the steel-blue eye 

Told of a spirit that wouldn’t die. 


And didn’t!—Nay! More! in death’s despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write— 
“Dear Mother’’! at first, of course, and then 
“Dear Captain” !—enquiring about the men! 
Captain’s answer of eighty and five, 

Giffen and I are left alive! 


“Johnston pressed, at the front”—they say ; 
Little Giffen was up and away !— 
III 


A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye 

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye ;— 

“T’ll write, if spared!”—there was news of fight 
But none of Giffen!—he did not write! 


IT sometimes fancy that were I King 
Of the courtly knights of Arthur’s ring, 
With the voice of the minstrel in mine ear 
And the tender legend that trembles here— 
I'd give the best on his bended knee— 
The whitest soul of my chivalry— 
For Little Giffen of Tennessee. 
Francis O. Ticknor. 


THE OPTIMIST 


_ Life is too short for us to quarrel with it. We should accept 
it as it is, drawbacks and all, and put it to use. 


LOVE the play 
Of every day, 
And all the life force that we see; 
To build anew, 
To catry through, 
And just to live is joy to me. 


Though grief and ill 

My hours may fill, 

I shall not say all life is vain; 

In spite of woe, 

And blow on blow, 

I shall not think there’s naught but pain. 


A touch of spring, 

A bird on wing, 

And now and then a warming smile; 

A friend or two 

With trust in you, 

These, free to all, make life worth while. 
Joseph B. Strauss, 


Permission of the Author. 
From ‘‘By-Products of Idle Hours.” 


II2 


SUCCESS 


Some men are so persistent and resourceful that what we 
need ask for them is not success, but merely the chance to win 
success. An Irishman had arranged that a priest should say 
masses for the shortening of his father’s stay in purgatory. 
After some weeks the priest announced that one of the father’s 
feet had been extricated. “Then we won’t bother about him 
any more,” the Irishman said. “Once we’ve got a foot out for 
him, he’ll get the rest out for himself.” 


ENIUS, that power which dazzles mortal eyes, 
Is oft but perseverance in disguise. 
Continuous effort of itself implies, 
In spite of countless falls, the power to rise. 
’Twixt failure and success the print’s so fine, 
Men sometimes know not when they touch the line; 
Just when the pearl is waiting one more plunge, 
How many a struggler has thrown up the sponge! 
As the tide goes clear out it comes clear in; 
In business ’tis at turns, the wisest win; 
And, oh, how true when shades of doubt dismay, 
“°Tis often darkest just before the day.” 
A little more persistence, courage, vim, 
Success will dawn o’er failure’s cloudy rim. 
Then take this honey for the bitterest cup; 
There is no failure, save in giving up. 
No real fall, so long as one still tries, 
For seeming set-backs make the strong man wise. 
There’s no defeat, in truth, save from within; 
Unless you’re beaten there, you’re bound to win. 
C. C. Cameron. 


PERSISTENCE 


Y hopes retire; my wishes as before 
Struggle to find their resting place in vain: 
The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore; 
The shore repels it; it returns again. 
Walter Savage Landor. 


113 


DODGIN’ TROUBLE 
To unwelcome visitors we should not be at home. 


W's I sees Ol’ Man Trouble 
A-lookin’ roun’ fu’ me, 
His face all screwed up double 
Enjoyin’ his misery, 
I knows dat he’s intendin’ 
To fill mah hea’t wid gloom; 
Den I’s mah way a-wendin’ 
To give dat feller room. 
‘And w’en wid frown so bitter 
He knocks upon mah do’, 
I says, “Go way, you critter, 


x99 


I don’t live hyeah no mo’. 


W’en Care comes wid a bundle 
An’ swahs dat hit is mine, 

I says, “Now you jes’ trundle 
Dat package down de line. 

You ain’t got de right numbah, 
Dat’s jes’ as plain as day, 

You shan’t distu’b mah slumbah— 
Go tak’ dat care away. 

Now don’t tink dat I’m dodgin’, 
But you have missed yo’ guess; 

For I’s done changed mah lodgin’, 
An’ ain’t lef’ no address.” 


W’en Bad Luck comes a-shoutin’ 
Dat I am in his grip, 
An’ keeps a gloom-shower spoutin’ 
Until I slide an’ slip, 
Fu’ me dere’s one salvation 
W’en pulverized wid fyeah, 
To ’scape de ruination 
I act like I can’t hyeah. 


114 


Wid courage in each feature 

I shout, ‘“Yo’re wastin’ bre’f, 
To talk to me, you creature, 

Case I is clean plumb de’f.” 


Joseph Morris. 


TO KNOW ALL IS TO FORGIVE ALL 


Many, many times has each of us been sure that his motives 
have been better than his deeds have shown. Is it not both 
sensible and charitable to assume that the same is true of our 
fellows? 


F I knew you and you knew me— 

If both of us could clearly see, 
And with an inner sight divine 
The meaning of your heart and mine, 
I’m sure that we would differ less 
And clasp our hands in friendliness ; 
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree 
If I knew you, and you knew me. 


If I knew you and you knew me, 

As each one knows his own self, we 

Could look each other in the face 

And see therein a truer grace. 

Life has so many hidden woes, 

So many thorns for every rose; 

The “why” of things our hearts would see, 
If I knew you and you knew me. 


Nixon Waterman. 
From “In Merry Mood,” 
Forbes & Co. 


“IIs 


JIM BLUDSO 


We see instances enough, heaven knows, of men’s selfish dis- 
regard for their fellows. Should we, on the other hand, be blind 
to the many instances of heroic self-sacrifice? 


ALL, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, 
Becase he don’t live, you see; 
Leastways, he’s got out of the habit 
Of livin’ like you and me. 
Whar have you been for the last three year 
That you haven’t heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
The night of the Prairie Belle? 


He weren’t no saint,—them engineers 
Is all pretty much alike,— 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
And another one here, in Pike; 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
And an awkward hand in a row, 
But he never flunked, and he never lied,— 
I reckon he never knowed how. 


And this was all the religion he had,— 
To treat his engine well; 

Never be passed on the river; 
To mind the pilot’s bell; 

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,— 
A thousand times he swore, 

He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last soul got ashore. 


All boats has their day on the Mississip, 
And her day come at last,— 

The Movastar was a better boat, 
But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed. 

And so she come tearin’ along that night— 
The oldest craft on the line— 

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 


116 


The fire bust out as she clared the bar, 
And burnt a hole in the night, 
And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
For that willer-bank on the right. 
There was runnin’ and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, 
Over all the infernal roar, 
“T’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
Till the last galoot’s ashore.” 


Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat 
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, 
And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
And knowed he would keep his word. 
And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off 
Afore the smokestacks fell,— 
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone 
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 


He weren’t no saint,—but at jedgment 
I’d run my chance with Jim, 
*Longside of some pious gentlemen 
That wouldn’t shook hands with him. 
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— 
And went for it thar and then; 
And Christ ain’t a going to be too hard 
On a man that died for men. 
John Hay. 
From “Pike County Ballads,” 
Houghton Mifflin Co. 


THE SOUL 


HE soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point: 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age; and Nature sink in years: 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. 


Joseph Addison. 
117 


THE PIONEERS 


The men who see visions or cherish new ideas find the sledding 
pretty hard at first. Edison says he made the first dozen type- 
writers; then waited ten years before he could sell them to the 
public. He says that forty years ago he began to advocate the 
idea of transforming coal into electrical energy at the mines 
instead of handling it, hauling it, and then wasting most of its 
power in the furnace. But only now is the idea beginning to be 
widely applied. 


HEY’RE the “utterly foolish dreamers,” 
Who dream of a better day; 
They’re not the plotters and schemers 
Who work for glory and pay, 
But with confidence undiminished 
They dream of a world made new, 
And after their days are finished 
The wonderful dream comes true! 


They’re the fighters who fight undaunted 
For the utterly hopeless cause, 

Ridiculed, jeered and taunted, 
With never a lull or pause; 

But after they’ve fought and perished, 
And after their work is done, 

The cause they have loved and cherished 
Is lifted to fame—and won! 


They know the hope and the yearning, 
The sting of the blind world’s scorn, 
But never the sunshine burning, 
The skies of their visioned morn; 
‘They’re the warriors fine and splendid, 
The fond and the faithful few, 
Whose battles and work are ended, 
Or ever the dreams come true! 


Berton Braley. 
From ‘Songs of the Workaday World,” 
Copyright, 1915 
George H. Doran Co., Publishers, 


118 


AMBITION 


Rome, in great peril, made Cincinnatus dictator. The mes- 
sengers who were sent to summon him found him plowing in a 
field. In just sixteen days he accomplished his mission, laid 
down his honors, and went back to workaday tasks. 


O bay for me that critics may deny 
In distant ages; no position high 
To win the others’ envy, but a place 
Among the men of service to my race. 


To earn the meed of praise that comes to one 
Who sees at eve his daily labor done, 

And done so well no hostile eye can find 

A flaw in it, or fault of any kind. 


To spread a note of cheer where’er I stray. 
To lead the joyless to a brighter day. 

To fill the hearts of suff’rers with a song. 
To stand alway a sturdy foe to wrong. 


To win the love of those with whom I toil. 
To keep as close as may be to the soil 
Whence came my strength and power, and anon 
When it must be, to die with harness on! 
John Kendrick Bangs. 


From “Songs of Cheer.” 
Permission of the Author’s Estate. 


BEAR UP AWHILE 


E good distress’d! 

Ye noble few! who here unbending stand 
Beneath Life’s pressure, yet bear up awhile, 
And what your bounded view, which only saw 
A little part, deem’d evil, is no more; 

The storms of wintry Time will quickly pass, 
And one unbounded Spring encircle all. 


James Thomson. 
119 


WHEN YOU ARE OLD 


There is an immortality in the love which foresees death 
cheerfully and with forethought lays plans for the happiness 
of the survivor. 


JHEN you are old, and I am passed away— 
Passed, and your face, your golden face, is 
ray— 
I think, whate’er the end, this dream of mine, 
Comforting you, a friendly star will shine 
Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray. 


So may it be: that so dead Yesterday, 

No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay, 

May serve you memories like almighty wine, 
When you are old! 


Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway 
Of death the past’s enormous disarray 
Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign, 
Live on well pleased: immortal and divine 
Love shall still tend you, as God’s angels may, 
When you are old. 


William Ernest Henley. 


PRESS ONWARD 


EEP a brave spirit, and never despair ; 
Hope brings you messages through the keen air— 
Good is victorious—God everywhere. 


Grand are the battles which you have to fight, 
Be not downhearted, but valiant for right; 
Hope, and press forward, your face to the light. 
Anonymous. 
120 


COURAGE 


Half-courage should be nurtured into wholeness, as we water 
and cultivate an exotic plant. 


WO kinds of courage are there in the creed 
Of simple men. The one is courage born, 

Not made; enfibred in the heart, not worn ~ 

Above it; strong in every hour of need. 

The other courage is of doubtful breed, 

For cowardice itself caught on the thorn 

Of sharp despair may lead a hope forlorn 

And trick the world with one swift dazzling deed. 


But this that holds me in perpetual lease, 

How can I give so motley thing a name? 

That wins no battles nor will sue for peace, 

That dares, that cries “Alas, my strength is gone!” 
. That droops, revives, that falters and fights on— 
Is this thing courage or but fear of shame? 


Louis Lavater. 


From “A Book of Australasian Verse,” 
Oxford University Press. 


COURAGE 


Too often we allow the past to shape the future. Had Provi- 
dence intended the past to be the directing force in our lives 
Providence would also have seen to it that our eyes would have 
been in the back of our heads. 


Fin the past should brooding sorrow dwell 
Look not that way, 
Let not the echoes of a tolling bell 
Ring in another day. 
Be brave in thought—the fearless thought shall lead 
To the achievement of the fearless deed. 


Ella Fuller Maitland. 


I2I 


ODE 


These lines sum perfectly the gratitude we should feel to 
those who gave their lives for their country. 


OW sleep the brave who sink to rest 
By all their country’s wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow’d mold, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. 


By fairy hands their knell is rung, 

By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim grey, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 

To dwell a weeping hermit there. 


Wilham Collins. 


MAGNOLIA CEMETERY ODE 


The preceding poem expresses pathos as well as gratitude— 
the pathos of the thought that heroes have laid down their 
lives. This poem expresses the more poignant pathos of such 
a sacrifice made in vain. At the time Timrod wrote, the Mag- 
nolia cemetery in Charleston, S. C., had no suitable monument 
to the Confederate dead who lay there. Such a monument has 
since been erected. The ode, especially the last stanza, has been 
much admired. Whittier pronounced it, “in its simple grandeur, 
the noblest poem ever written by a Southern poet,” and Pro- 
fessor Trent has declared, “One need not fear to compare it 
with the best lyric of the kind in the literature of the world.” 


LEEP sweetly in your humble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; 
Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 


I22 


In seeds of laurel in the earth 
The blossom of your fame is blown, 
And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone! 


Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 
Behold! your sisters bring their tears, 

And these memorial blooms. 


Small tributes! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 

Than when some cannon-molded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 


Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 
There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 
By mourning beauty crowned! 


Henry Timrod. 


GREAT MEN 


Great men mold the eras in which they live. How different the 
history of the world would have been without Alexander the 
Great, Julius Cesar, Charlemagne, Cromwell, Napoleon, and 
Washington. 


IS thus the spirit of a single mind 
Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull’s protection; 
Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bell-wether form the flock’s connection, 
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual ;— 

Such is the way of your Great Men o’er little. 


Lord Byron. 
123 


RESOLVE 


Look back if it helps; look forward because it helps. Only, 
do not forget that after looking you must move. That ship will 
not drive far through the darkness which drops its anchor and 
turns its searchlight astern. 


S the dead year is clasped by a dead December, 
So let your dead sins with your dead days lie. 
A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember, 
We build our own ladders to climb to the sky. 
Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgetting 
Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong. 
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting; 
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long. 


Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is 
still shining. 
Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for 


the next. 
Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their 
lining. 
Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a 
text. 


As each year hurries by let it join that procession 
Of skeleton shapes that march down to the Past, 
While you take your place in the line of Progression, 
With your eyes on the heavens, your face to 
the blast. 


I tell you the future can hold no terrors 
For any sad soul while the stars revolve, 
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors, 
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve. 
It is never too late to begin rebuilding, 
Though all into ruins your life seems hurled, 
For see how the light of the New Year is gilding 
The wan, worn face of the bruised old world. 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 


From “Poems of Pleasure,” 
W. B.-Conkey Co., Chicago, Ill. 


124 


EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 


In this poem Browning disclaims any wish to be pitied after 
death. Rather does he wish to be thought of as that which 
he was—a man who had looked forward gladly and valiantly 
to meeting death, as he had gladly and confidently met the 
problems and hardships of life. Regarding the third stanza 
we are told: “One evening, just before his death-illness, the 
poet was reading this from a proof to his daughter-in-law and 
sister. He said: ‘It almost looks like bragging to say this, 
and as if I ought to cancel it; but it’s the simple truth; and as 
it’s true, it shall stand, ” 


T the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 
When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, im- 
prisoned— 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved 
so, 
—Pity me? 


Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 
What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 
—Being—who? 


One who never turned his back but marched breast 
forward, 
Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong 
would triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
Sleep to wake. 


No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time 
Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
“Strive and thrive!” cry “Speed,—fight on, fare ever 
There as here!” 


Robert Brownsng. 
125 t 


THE TWO 


At Edgehill, during the English Civil War, Prince Rupert 
of the Royalist cavalry drove the Parliamentary horse in wild 
flight before him; but his zeal outweighed his judgment and he 
pressed the pursuit so far that he gave no help to the Royalist 
infantry, which had been severely handled. Two years later Oliver 
Cromwell of the Parliamentary cavalry won a similar advantage 
at Marston Moor; but he pulled up promptly and hurled his 
squadrons against the Royalists in other parts of the field. His 
refusal to be carried away by his ardor was decisive. From that 
time the king’s cause was doomed. 


OW, if aught be true, then this holds true— 
The man who dares is a Flame: 
Setting the blood in our veins afire, 
Lighting the blaze of the Great Desire— 
Burning his way to Fame. 
Yet the man who keeps the ground he wins, 
Though his words be calm and his pace be slow— 
The man who sees that the Jest begins 
Where the Tragedy ends—he is good to know— 
Few are there better than he to know! 


The man who dares cuts a furrow wide: 
He sows on a broad-cast scale 

And cradles the crops on the uplands high, 

Where others may note him, against the sky— 
But what of the grain in the vale? 

He knows no law but his own, self-made, 
That daily he bends to his feverish will,— 

A meteor flashing past worlds more staid, 
—But the North Star guides the mariner still— 
Steadfast and true it guides men still! 


The meteor-man is ever blind 
To aught but his will to win. 
Through the choking smother of battle-mist 
He glimpses the world—but it’s all a-twist 
And wallowing deep in sin! 


126 


While a little way off, with courage calm 
The other fights on, in his quieter way, 
Steadfast his brain and strong is his arm 
At finish as well as start of the fray— 
And he holds all he wins in the fray! 
Everard Jack Appleton. 


Permission of the Author. 
From ‘“‘The Quiet Courage.” 
D. Appleton & Co. 


BREAKER AND MAKER 


A colored man, alone with his girl, was dumb and backward. 
To help him out, she inquired: “What'd yuh ratheh be than 
anythin’ else on earth?” He brightened. “One o’ dem big 
octopuses.” “Why?” “So Ah could wrap all dem twenty-five 
arms erroun’ yuh and hol’ yuh tight.” “Gwan, nigguh. Yuh 
ain’t doin’ nuthin’ wid dem two arms yuh got.” 


| Pes ee called a quitter from the crowd 
And barred his pathway to success; 
At each new blow he wailed aloud, 

Or faltered in the daily stress ; 

And step by step fate dragged him low, 
The easier each passing day, 

And yet he struck no counter blow, 

Or ever upward fought his way. 


And at the end he cursed the fate 
That drove him to such bitter state. 


Fate picked a fighter from the throng 
And barred his pathway to the goal; 
At each new blow, with purpose strong, 
He fought with ever braver soul; 

And step by step he bore fate back 
The easier each passing day, 

And soon before the stout attack 

Fate passed on, beaten, from his way. 


And at the end he blessed fate’s whim 
That helped to make a man of him. 
Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author. 
From ‘‘The Sportlight.” 


127 


SOLILOQUY FOR A THIRD ACT 


The only time that never seems the right one is the present. 
The only time we can make the right one is the present. 


HAT is this sullen curious interval 

Between the happy Thought, the languid Act? 
What is this dull paralysis of Will 
That lets the fatal days drift by like dreams ? 
Of the mind’s dozing splendors what remains? 
What 1s this Now I utter to you here? 


This Now, for great men dead, was golden Future; 
For happier souls to come, conjectured Past. 

Men love and praise the Past—the only thing 

In all the great commodity of life 

That grows and grows, shining and heaping up 
And endlessly compounds beneath their hands: 
Richer we are in Time with every hour, 

But in nought else—The Past! I love the Past— 
Stand off, O Future, keep away from me! 


Yet some there are, great thoughtless active souls, 
Can use the volvant circle of the year 

Like a child’s hoop, and flog it gleefully 
Along the downward slope of busy days; 

But some, less lucky. 

What wretch invented Time and calendars 
To torture his weak wits, to probe himself 
As a man tongues a tender concave tooth? 
See, all men bear this secret cicatrix, 

This navel mark where we were ligatured 

To great Eternity; and so they have 

This knot of Time-sense in their angry hearts. 


So must I die and pass to Timeless nothing? 
It will not, shail not, cannot, must not be! 
V’ll print such absolute identity 

Upon these troubled words, that finding them 


128 


In some old broken book (long, long away), 
The startled reader cries, Here was a Voice 
That had a meaning, and outrode the years ! 


Christopher Morley. 
From ‘‘Parson’s Pleasure,” 


Copyright, 1923, 
George H. Doran Company. 


THERE AIN’T NO NEED TO 
Though life is positive, often the wise part is to refrain. 


HEN you're out hunting with your pup 
And see a bear and think you'll sup 
On him, and raise your gun abrup’ 
And draw a bead too, 
You'd better stop; you'll git et up— 
There ain’t no need to. 


When talk is runnin’ like a sluice 
On toppiks cloudy and abstruse 
And you’re temptationed to cut loose, 
It should be seed to; 
Don’t go and make yourself a goose— 
There ain’t no need to. 


When some guy fills you to the brim 
With notions that your income slim 
Will fatten out if you'll jes’ skim 
Its cream to feed to 
His honest self, well, don’t trust him— 
There ain’t no need to. 


When folks sit round and prate and prate 
*Bout things as should be done, and bait 
Their little trap, and kalkillate 
You'll pay some heed too, 
Don’t pull their chestnuts from the grate— 
There ain’t no need to. 
St. Clair Adams. 


129 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 


The charge here described is among the immortal attacks in 
history. It was hopeless from the outset; “some one had biund- 
ered’ in ordering it. But the troopers rode forward without 
hesitation. Of the 670 men who participated, only 370 survived 
unhurt; and of these but 195 were mounted when the brigade 
re-formed on the same ground twenty minutes after the be- 
ginning of the charge. 


I 


ALF a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
‘Forward the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!’ he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 


II 


‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ 
Was there a man dismay’d? 
Not tho’ the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder’d. 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 


III 


Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 


130 


i 


Into the mouth of hell 
Rode the six hundred. 


IV. 


Flash’d all their sabres bare, 
Flash’d as they turn’d in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder’d. 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro’ the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d and sunder’d. 
Then they rode back, but not, 
Not the six hundred. 


V 


Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had: fought so well 
Came thro’ the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 


VI 


When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

Alfred Tennyson. 
131 


CASABIANCA 


Nelson’s victory at the battle of the Nile is among the world’s 
renowned naval triumphs. But the conduct of the ten-year-old 
son of the commander of the French flagship called forth almost 
as much praise, even from the English. The French captain, 
though seriously wounded, fought on until his ship, which had 
been in flames for half an hour, blew up. Meanwhile young 
Casabianca had been urged to seek safety. Steadfastly refusing, 
he remained at his post and in a futile effort to rescue his 
father lost his own life. 


HE boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled; 
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck 
Shone round him o’er the dead. 


Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
As born to rule the storm; 
A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, though child-like form. 


The flames rolled on; he would not go 
Without his father’s word; 

That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 


He called aloud, “Say, father, say, 
If yet my task be done!” 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son, 


“Speak, father!” once again he cried, 
“Tf I may yet be gone!” 

And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolled on. 


Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 
In still, yet brave despair ; 
132 


And shouted but once more aloud, 
“My father! must I stay?” 

While o’er him, fast, through sail and shroud, 
The wreathing fires made way. 


They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 


Then came a burst of thunder sound; 
The boy,—oh! where was he? 

Ask of the winds, that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea,— 


With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part,— 
But the noblest thing that perished there, 
Was that young, faithful heart. 


Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


NATURE 


The miracles of nature are not miracles, only because they are 
so common. If no one had ever seen a flower, the blossoming of 
even a dandelion would be the most startling event in the world. 


O, mark the matchless working of the Power 
That shuts within the seed the future flower; 
Bids these in elegance of form excel, 
In color these, and those delight the smell ; 
Sends Nature forth, the Daughter of the skies, 
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes. 


Wiliam Cowper. 
133 


A MAN MUST WANT 
No want, no work; no desire, no deed. 


T’S wanting keeps us young and fit. 
It’s wanting something just ahead 
And striving hard to come to it, 
That brightens every road we tread. 


That man is old before his time 
Who is supremely satisfied 

‘And does not want some hill to climb 
Or something life has still denied. 


The want of poverty is grim, 
It has a harsh and cruel sting, 
But fill the cup up to the brim, 
And that’s a far more hopeless thing. 


A man must want from day to day, 
Must want to reach a distant goal 
Or claim some treasure far away, 
For want’s the builder of the soul. 


He who has ceased to want has dropped 
The working tools of life and stands 

Much like an old-time clock that’s stopped 
While Time is mouldering his hands. 


I’m truly sorry for the man, 
Though he be millionaire or king, 
Who does not hold some cherished plan 
And says he does not want a thing. 


Want is the spur that drives us on 
And oft its praises should be sung, 
For man is old when want is gone— 
It’s what we want that keeps us young. 


Edgar ‘A. Guest. 


From “The Passing Throng,” 
The Reilly & Lee Co. 


134 


ON THE FIRING LINE 


“Tt is courage,’ says Cervantes, “that vanquishes in war, and 
not good weapons.” 


OR glory? For good? For fortune, or for fame? 
Why, ho, for the front where the battle is on! 
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame; 
Go forward as ever the valiant have gone. 
Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine, 
Go forward, right on for the firing line! 


Whether newsboy or plowboy or cowboy or clerk, 
Fight forward; be ready, be steady, be irst; 
Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work; 
Exult and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst, 
As David, as Alfred—iet dogs skulk and whine— 
There is room but for men on the firing line. 


Aye, the one place to fight and the one place to fall— 

As fall we must all, in God’s good time— 

It is where the manliest man is the wall, 

Where boys are as men in their pride and prime. 
Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine— 
Far out on the roaring red firing line. 

Joaquin Muller. 


From ‘‘Complete Poetical Worker,” 
Harr Wagner Publishing Co. 


LIFE 


ELL—well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tals, 
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; 
The King commands us, and the Doctor quacks us, 
The Priest instructs, and so our life exhales: 
A little Breath, Love, Wine, Ambition, Fame, 
Fighting, Devotion, Dust,—perhaps a Name. 
Lord Byron. 


135 


HIS WORST ENEMY 


Many men fail, not because of external opposition, but be- 
cause of the improper or unintelligent use of their own powers: 
What Andrew Carnegie says of business is true in other fields 
also: “Here is the prime condition of success, the great secret,— 
concentrate your energy, thought, and capital exclusively upon 
the business in which you are engaged. Having begun on one 
line, resolve to fight it out on that line, to lead in it, adopt 
every improvement, have the best machinery, and know the 
most about it. Finally, do not be impatient, for, as Emerson 
Pet No one can cheat you out of ultimate success but your- 
self. 


KE, who had a sword to swing, 
Ever went ablundering 
Into cul-de-sacs, 
Found the way was black, and then 
Had, perforce, to hack again 
(With small sword-room!) back again 
To the beaten tracks. 


All the knaves beset him there: 

Yet they could not fret him there 
When his sword was drawn. 

He himself must beat himself, 

He alone defeat himself. 

Lord, how he could cheat himself 
When the mood was on! 


So they gave him rope enough; 

Dodging him, with hope enough 
He would pull the noose. 

None but feared the thrust of him 

When they roused the lust of him; 

Yet—there lies the dust of him,— 
Played with—fast and loose! 


Let the grave absorb it quite! 
What a blazing orbit might 

Not his sword: have whirled; 
Carving out a name for him, 


136 


Purple robes and fame for him, 
Plaudits and acclaim for him, 
Fearing not the World! 


But some foible nursed in him 
Spread disaster cursed in him. 
Like a flame it ran 
Withering every branch for him,— 
Wounds that none could staunch for him! 
Nor might ships re-launch for him 
When the end began! 


So to vile sterility 
Sank his possibility,— 
Dust upon the shelf! 
He alone could cheat himself, 
So at last he beat himself 
Striving to defeat himself 
Through his other self! 


Wiliam Rose Benét. 


From “The Falconer of God,” 
Copyright, 1914, 
Yale University Press. 


HIDDEN STRENGTH 


The path of least resistance inevitably leads to nowhere. The 
oe ee of the pioneers comes from their having to cut their own 
paths. 


HE Gods in bounty work up storms about us, 
That give mankind occasion to exert 
Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice 
Virtues that shun the day, and lie conceal’d 
In the smooth seasons and the calms of life 


Joseph Addison. 
137 


MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY 


With the battle of Sempach, fought between the Swiss and 
Austrians in 1386, is connected the legendary story of Arnold 
of Winkelried, which may have some foundation in fact. Ac- 
cording to this story, the Austrians gained possession of a 
narrow pass in the mountains and formed a serried phalanx 
with presented spears. Until this solid front was broken the 
Swiss could not hope to make a successful attack. At last, 
Arnold of Winkelried, leaving the Swiss ranks, rushed upon the 
Austrian spears; and receiving in his body as many points as 
possible, made a breach in the line. The Swiss took advantage 
of this opening and put the Austrian army to complete rout. 


AKE way for Liberty!” he cried; 
Made way for Liberty, and died! 


In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood! 

A wall, where every conscious stone 
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; 
A rampart all assaults to bear, 

Till time to dust their frames should wear; 
A wood like that enchanted grove 

In which, with friends, Rinaldo strove, 
Where every silent tree possessed 

A spirit prisoned in its breast, 

Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Would startle into hideous life: 

So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, 
A living wall, a human wood! 


Impregnable their front appears, 

All horrent with projected spears, 

Whose polished points before them shine, 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line, 
Bright as the breakers’ splendors run 
Along the billows to the sun. 


Opposed to these, a hovering band, 
Contending for their native land; 
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 


138 


From manly necks the ignoble yoke, 
And forged their fetters into swords, 
On equal terms to fight their lords; 
And what insurgent rage had gained, 
In many a mortal fray maintained: 
Marshaled once more at freedom’s call, 
They came to conquer or to fall, 
Where he who conquered, he who fell, 
Was deemed a dead or living Tell. 


And now the work of life and death 

Hung on the passing of a breath; 

The fire of conflict burned within; 

The battle trembled to begin: 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 
Point for attack was nowhere found; 
Where’er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
The unbroken line of lances blazed; 

That line ’twere suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants’ feet ; 

How could they rest within their graves, 
And leave their homes the homes of slaves? 
Would they not feel their children tread 
With clanking chains above their head? 


It must not be: this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the oppressor’s power ; 

All Switzerland is in the field, 

She will not fly, she cannot yield; 

Few were the numbers she could boast; 
But every freeman was a host, 

And felt as though himself were he 

On whose sole arm hung victory. 


It did depend on one, indeed: 

Behold him! Arnold Winkelried! 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked he stood amid the throng, 


139 


In rumination deep and long, 

Till you might see with sudden grace, 
The very thought come o’er his face; 

And by the motion of his form, 

Anticipate the bursting storm; 

And by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how, 
But ’twas no sooner thought than done; 
The field was in a moment won. 


“Make way for Liberty!” he cried: 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp: 
“Make way for Liberty!” he cried: 
Their keen points met from side to side; 
He bowed among them like a tree, 
And thus made way for Liberty. 


Swift to the breach his comrades fly; 
“Make way for Liberty!” they cry, 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed the spears through Arnold’s heart ; 
While instantaneous as his fall, 

Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all. 

An earthquake could not overthrow 

A city with a surer blow. 


Thus Switzerland again was free, 
Thus Death made way for Liberty! 


James Montgomery. 


LOOK UP! 


OOK up! and not down; 
Out! and not in; 
Forward! and not back; 
And lend a hand. , 
Edward Everett Hale. 
140 


YOUNG AND OLD 


Every one of us can be educated, not necessarily through a 
knowledge of books, but through the development of the faculty 
to face any situation, approach any kind of problem with wisdom. 
Such an education is the only true one. It is never more service- 
able then when, having lost the ardors of youth, we are left in 
a world where our role must be passive. 


HEN all the world is young, lad, 
And all the trees are green; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 
And every lass a queen; 
Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 
And round the world away; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 
And every dog his day. 


When all the world is old, lad, 
And all the trees are brown; 
And all the sport is stale, lad 
And all the wheels run down: 
Creep home, and take your place there, 
The spent and maimed among: 
God grant you find one face there 
You loved when all was young. 


Charles Kingsley. 


ENVY 


The man who has risen high enough to be seen, will be the 
target for brickbats and mud. 


E who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 
snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 


Lord Byron. 
141 


KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP 


Sometimes skill, fighting prowess, and all outer resources fail 
us, and we must rely on sheer manhood. Once when Roose- 
velt’s party, with an experienced hunter to lead it, was after 
big game in Africa, it came unexpectedly upon a herd of buffalo. 
The animals wheeled toward the party, half-curious but ready 
to charge. Such a charge meant death to the party, and know- 
ing this fact, the leader turned to run. But Roosevelt perceived 
that the flight itself would bring on the attack, that the emer- 
gency was one in which nothing but clear grit would serve. He 
instantly snatched the command and in three sharp words bade 
every one be perfectly still. At length the buffalo, seeing no 
movement from the party, turned and went away. 


HERE has something gone wrong, 
My brave boy, it appears, 
For I see your proud struggle 
To keep back the tears. 
That is right; when you cannot 
Give trouble the slip, 
Then bear it, still keeping 
A stiff upper lip! 


Though you cannot escape 
Disappointment and care, 
There’s one thing you can do,— 
_ It is, learn how to bear. 

If when for life’s prizes 
You’re running, you trip, 
Get up, start again, 
Keep a stiff upper lip! 


Let your hands and your conscience 
Be honest and clean; 
Scorn to touch or to think 
Of the thing that is mean; 
But hold on‘to the pure 
And the right with firm grip; 
And though hard be the task, 
Keep a.stiff upper lip! 


142 


Through childhood, through manhood, 
Through life to the end, 
Struggle bravely and stand 
By your colors, my friend; 
Only yield when you must, 
Never give up the ship, 
But fight on to the last 
With a stiff upper lip. 
Anonymous. 


STRENGTH 


When Peter the Great of Russia set out to build a new capital, 
conditions seemed hopelessly unfavorable. The region, besides 
being open to floods, offered nothing but swamps in which to 
lay the foundations. There was no stone, no wood to be had. 
Workmen were lacking. The doubters pointed out the contrast 
between obstacles and resources. Peter replied, “Get to work.” 
And he built the city. 


UR strength is greater than we dare to think. 
We turn our heads and whisper no! no! no! 

From this dark cup, we may not, will not drink, 
No man was born to taste such wine of woe, 
Then draws the cup more near our tightening lips, 
Prest close to them by hard, resistless hand, 
Then wondrous change and hard to understand, 
New vigor steals through our astonished frame, 
Old wounds are healed, more glad and young we grow, 
The desert waste is blossoming with the rose, 
Up longer roads with singing lips we go. 


Ellen M. Huntington Gates. 


From ‘‘The Marble House and Other Poems,” 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 


143 


COURAGE 


When liberty is threatened, courage is called for and no 
sacrifice is too great. Our spirit should be as that of the Spartan 
mother who wished her son to return with his shield or upon it. 


OURAGE!—Nothing can withstand 
Long a wronged, undaunted land 

If the hearts within her be 

True unto themselves and thee, 

Thou freed giant, Liberty! 

Oh, no mountain-nymph art thou, 

When the helm is on thy brow, 

And the sword is in thy hand, 

Fighting for thy own good land. 


Courage !—Nothing e’er withstood 
Freemen fighting for their good; 
Armed with all their father’s fame, 
They will win and wear a name, 
That shall go to endless glory, 

Like the gods of old Greek story, 

' Raised to heaven and heavenly worth, 

For the good they gave to earth. 


Courage !—There is none so poor 
(None of all who wrong endure), 
None so humble, none so weak, 
But may flush his father’s cheek, 
And his maiden’s, dear and true, 
With the deeds that he may do. 
Be his days as dark as night, 

He may make himself a light. 
What though sunken be his sun? 
There are stars when day is done! 


Courage!—Who will be a slave, 
That hath strength to dig a grave, 
And therein his fetters hide, 
And lay a tyrant by his side? 


144 


Courage !—Hope, howe’er he fly 
For a time, can never die! 
Courage, therefore, brother men! 
Courage! To the fight again. 


Bryan Waller Procter. 


REVOLUTIONS 


Humanity has never attained perfection, perhaps will never 
attain it. We struggle from that which we have to that which 
we think is higher. Thus hope is ever before us, and we have 
the blessing of struggle. 


EFORE man parted for this earthly strand, 
While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, 
God put a heap of letters in his hand, 
And bade him make with them what word he could. 


And man has turn’d them many times; made Greece, 
Rome, England, France ;—yes, nor in vain essay’d 
Way after way, changes that never cease! 

The letters have combined, something was made. 


But ah! an inextinguishable sense 

Haunts him that he has not made what he should; 
That he has still, though old, to recommence, 

Since he has not yet found the word God would. 


And empire after empire, at their height 

Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on; 
Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, 
And droop’d, and slowly died upon their throne. 


One day, thou say’st, there will at last appear 

The word, the order, which God meant should be. 

—Ah! we shall know that well when it comes near ; 

The band will quit man’s heart, he will breathe free. 
Matthew Arnold. 


145 


THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS 


Some causes are worthy of any risk, any sacrifice. Some are 
unworthy that lives should be placed in jeopardy for them. A 
right-thinking man distinguishes between a true cause and a 
false one, and resents being called upon to undergo peril where 
there is no sufficient reason why he should. 


ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal 
sport, 
And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: 
The nobles filld the benches round, the ladies by their 
side ; 
And ’mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped 
to make his bride. 


And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts 
below. 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; 

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went 
with their paws; 


With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled one 
on another, 

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund’rous 
smother ; 

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through 
the air; 

Said Francis then, “Good gentlemen, we’re better here 
than there!’ 


De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, a beauteous lively 
dame, 

With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always 
seem’d the same: 

She thought, “The count, my lover, is as brave as brave 
can be; 

He surely would do desperate things to show his love of 
me! 

146 


“Kings, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous 
fine ; 

I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be 
mine !” 

She dropp’d her glove to prove his love: then looked on 
him and smiled; 

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild! 


The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regained 
his place. 

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the 
lady’s face! 

“Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely done!” and he rose 
from where he sat : 

“No love,” quoth he, “‘but vanity sets love a task like that!” 


Leigh Hunt. 


CHALLENGE 


The smug and aloof complacency of which the world has so 
much is a thing to challenge and assail. ‘‘Woe to them that are 
at ease in Zion!” 


HE quiet and courageous night, 

The keen vibration of the stars, 
Call me, from morbid peace, to fight 
The world’s forlorn and desperate wars. 


The air throbs like a rolling drum— 
The brave hills and the singing sea, 
Unrest and people’s faces come 
Like battle-trumpets, rousing me. 


And while Life’s lusty banner flies, 
I shall assail, with raging mirth, 
The scornful and untroubled skies, 
The cold complacency of earth. 
Loms Untermeyer. 
From ‘‘Challenge,”’ 


Copyrighted by 
Harcourt, Brace and Co, 


147 


DA BESTA FRAND 


In the coldest part of the winter of 1924-5 diphtheria broke 
out in Nome, Alaska. Modern science could cope with the epi- 
demic, but only if anti-toxin were available. The nearest point 
at which this could be assembled was at Nenana, 650 miles away. 
From Nenana it would have to be transported by relays of 
men with dog-sleds. This one desperate recourse was adopted. 
One team of Siberian huskies succeeded another in the task 
of mushing through the frozen waste. The last lap of the 
journey fell to Gunnar Kasson. A blizzard caught him; he 
found it impossible to make out the course. But he trusted 
to the leader of his dog-team, Balto. And not in vain. It was 
through the courage, sagacity, and endurance of the faithful 
dog that the race which held the whole world spellbound and 
meant life or death to a stricken population was won. 


O keeck my dog! Ha! don’ta dare! 
For jus’ so queeck you do, 
You Meester ’Merican, I swear 
I brack your face for you! 
Eh? Wi’at? Well, den, dat’s alla right, 
But let my Carlo be. 
Excusa me for gat excite’; 
Com’, look! T’smilat’ Seer 
I want be frand weeth you, eef dat 
You wanta be my frand, 
But Carlo ees bes’ frand I gat 
Een all dees bigga land, 
An’ he ees firsta ’Merican 
For com’ w’en I am blue 
An’ mak’ me feela like man— 
I tal eet all to you. 


W’en I am com’ from Italy, 
Jus’ landa from da sheep, 
Som’ thief he tak’ my mon’ from me 
An’—presto !—he ees skeep. 
Ar’ w’en I find ees goin’, O! my! 
I scream, I pull my hair, 
An’ justa run aroun’ an’ cry 
Like crazy man an’ swear. 


148 


W’en com’sa beeg poleecaman, 
I ask, I beg dat he 

Weell catcha thiefa eef he can— 
He justa laugh at me! 

T seet een street—I am so blue— 
An’ justa hold my head 
An’ theenk “‘w’at am I gona do?” 
An’ weesh dat I am dead. 
Som’ peopla com’ an’ look, but dey 
Jus’ smile an’ notta care; 

So pretta soon dey gon’ away 
An’ leave me seettin’ dere. 
How long I seet I no can tal; 
I pray, I cry, I curse— 
I bat you eef I go to hal 
I no could feel more worse! 
But while I seet ees som’theeng sof’ 
Dat touch my cheek an’ w’en 
I tak’ my hand for brush eet off 
EFet touch my cheek agen. 
IT look. Ees justa leetla cur 
Dat wag hees yellow tail! 

An blood ees on hees yellow fur, 
An’ dere ees old teen pail 
Tied on bayhind. Poor leetla pup! 

But steell he leeck my hand, 
As eef he say to me: “Cheer up! 
I gona be your frand.” 
I hug heem up! I am ashame’ 
For let heem see dat he 
Ees justa dog, but alla same 
Fes better man dan me. 


So! dees ees Carlo, Meester Man; 
I introduce to you, 

Da true, da kinda ’Merican; 
Da first I evva knew! 


T. A. Daly. 


From ‘“‘Canzoni,” 
Copyrighted by 
Harcourt, Brace & Co. 


149 


THE WORLD IS WAITING FOR YOU 


There are big jobs crying to be done. But they call for big 
men, men of vision, men of courage. FE. H. Harriman was 
once asked what interested him most in life. “Well,” replied 
he, “I think it is to plan some big piece of helpful work that 
everybody says can’t be done and then jump in with both feet.” 


HE world is waiting for you, young man, 
If your purpose is strong and true; 

If out of your treasures of mind and heart, 
You can bring things old and new; 

If you know the truth that makes men free, 
And with skill can bring it to view, 

The world is waiting for you, young man, 
The world is waiting for you. 


There are treasures of mountain and treasures of sea, 
And harvest of valley and plain, 

That Industry, Knowledge, and Skill can secure, 
While Ignorance wishes in vain. 

To scatter the lightning and harness the storm 
Is a power that is wielded by few; 

If you have the nerve and the skill, young man, 
The world is waiting for you. 


Of the idle and brainless the world has enough— 
Who eat what they never have earned; 
Who hate the pure stream from the fountain of 
truth, 
And wisdom and knowledge have spurned. 
But patience and purpose which know no defeat, 
And genius like gems bright and true, 
Will bless all mankind with their love, life and 
light,— 
The world is waiting for you. 


Then awake, O young man, from the stupor of 
doubt, 
And prepare for the battle of life; 


150 


Be the fire of the forge, or be anvil or sledge,— 

But win, or go down in the strife! 
Can you stand though the world into ruin should 

rock ? 

Can you conquer with many or few? 
Then the world is waiting for you, young man, 

The world is waiting for you! 

S. S. Calkins. 


ON HIS BLINDNESS 


Milton, conscious all his life of the possession of great powers 
for the right use of which he thought God would hold him 
responsible, had long planned to write an immortal poem. Then 
came the Civil War and his patriotic service as Secretary of 
the Commonwealth—service in which he sacrificed his eyesight. 
“Surely,” said he to himself, half despairing, “God no longer 
can expect anything of me.’ But patience came to him, re- 
minded him that God has no real need of anything man can do, 
bade him wait courageously for evidence of future duty. He 
accepted the mood and in time wrote the poem he had dreamed 
of, Paradise Lost. 


HEN I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide, 
‘Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?’ 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need 
Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed 
And post o’er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait.’ 


John Milton. 
I51 


WANTED—A MAN 


The man whom Lincoln at last found had one supreme quality— 
courage. He did not fear any known danger. He did not fear 
even the unknown dangers which were his when he faced so 
able a strategist and so formidable a fighter as Lee. His brother- 
in-arms, Sherman, said of him: “Wilson, ’m a damned sight 
smarter man than Grant; I know a great deal more about war, 
military history, strategy, and grand tactics than he does; I 
know more about organization, supply, and administration, and 
about everything else than he does; but I'll tell you where he 
beats me and where he beats the world. He don’t care a damn 
“hee what the enemy does out of his sight, but it scares me like 

ell. 


ACK from the trebly crimsoned field 
Terrible words are thunder-tost; 
Full of the wrath that will not yield, 
Full of revenge for battles lost! 
Hark to their echo, as it crost 
The Capital, making faces wan: 
‘End this murderous holocaust; 
Abraham Lincoln, give usa MAN! 


‘Give us a man of God’s own mold, 
Born to marshal his fellow-men; 
One whose fame is not bought and sold 

At the stroke of a politician’s pen; 

Give us the man of thousands ten, 
Fit to do as well as to plan; 

Give us a rallying-cry, and then, 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! 


‘No leader to shirk the boasting foe, 

And to march and countermarch our brave, 
Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, 

And the swamp-grass covers each nameless 

grave; 

Nor another, whose fatal banners wave 
Aye in Disaster’s shameful van; 

Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave ;— 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! 


152 


‘Hearts are mourning in the North, 
While the sister rivers seek the main, 
Red with our life-blood flowing forth,— 
Who shall gather it up again? 
Though we march to the battle-plain 
Firmly as when the strife began, 
Shall all our offering be in vain ?—~ 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! 


‘Is there never one in all the land, 
One on whose might the cause may lean? 
Are all the common ones so grand, 
And all the titled ones so mean? 
What if your failure may have been 
In trying to make good bread from bran, 
From worthless metal a weapon keen ?— 
Abraham Lincoln, find usa MAN! 


‘O, we will follow him to the death, 

Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are! 
O, we will use our latest breath, 

Cheering for every sacred star! 

His to marshal us high and far; 
Ours to battle, as patriots can 

When a Hero leads the Holy War !— 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!’ 


Edmund Clarence Stedman, 


From “Collected Poems,” 
Houghton Mifflin Co. 


CONTENT 


Y crown is in my heart, not on my head; 
Not deck’d with diamonds, and Indian stones, 
Nor to be seen: my crown is called Content ; 
A crown it is that seldom Kings enjoy. 
Wiliam Shakespeare. 
153 


THE DREAMS AHEAD 


Luther Burbank is known the world over for his success in 
plant breeding. But his success is as nothing to his vision of 
the success yet to be won by generations on generations of 
scientific minds. He says that plant development is to-day where 
electrical development was fifty years ago—just begun. If 
dreams may thus affect vast fields of activity, how do they affect 
one’s individual fortunes? Years ago a boy, one-quarter Indian, 
three-quarters white, who had spent five years in Topeka, Kansas, 
decided to return to the reservation near by. His grandmother, 
a full-blooded Kaw, dissuaded him. She told him that among 
the Indians his opportunities would be limited, among the 
whites unlimited. He took her advice. To-day he is leader 
of the majority in the United States Senate. His name is 
Charles Curtis. 


HAT would we do in this world of ours, 
Were it not for the dreams ahead? 
For thorns are mixed with the blooming flowers, 
No matter which path we tread. 


And each of us has his golden goal, 
Stretching far into the years; 

And ever he climbs with a hopeful soul, 
With alternate smiles and tears. 


That dream ahead is what holds him up 
Through the storms of a ceaseless fight; 
When his lips are pressed to the wormwood’s cup, 
And clouds shut out the light. 


To some it’s a dream of a high estate, 
To some it’s a dream of wealth; 

To some it’s a dream of a truce with Fate 
In a constant search for health. 


To some it’s a dream of home and wife; 
To some it’s a crown above; 

The dreams ahead are what make each life— 
The dreams—and faith—and love! 


Edwin Carlisle Litsey. 
154 


IN A FRIENDLY SORT O’ WAY 


A word of kindness or encouragement makes the going easier— 
sometimes for the speaker as well as for the person addressed. 
A man walking along a dark street was hardly aware that a 
child was bound in the same direction until a tiny hand was 
thrust into his. “I thought,’ explained the child, “you might 
be feeling afraid.” 


HEN a man ain’t got a cent, and he’s feeling kind 
o’ blue, 
An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sun- 
shine through, 
It’s a great thing, Oh my brethren, for a feller just to lay 
His hand upon your shoulder ina friendly sort 0’ way! 


It makes a man feel curious; it makes the tear drops start, 

Ar’ you sort o’ feel a flutter in the region of the heart: 

You can’t look up and meet his eyes—you don’t know 
what to say 

When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort 0’ 
way. 


Oh, the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and 
its gall, 

With its care and bitter crosses, but a good worl’ after all; 

An’ a good God must have made it—leastways, that is what 
I say, 

When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort 0’ way. 


Anonymous. 


(Wrongly attributed to James Wiuicomb Riley). 
LIFE’S END 


HY all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
What tho’ we wade in wealth, or soar in fame? 
Earth’s highest station ends in “Here he lies’: 
And “Dust to Dust” concludes her noblest song. 


Edward Young. 
155 


THE AMBITIOUS OYSTER 


The foibles of men who overreach themselves may be seen 
in this fable of an oyster. 


N oyster lived in an oyster shell 
As oysters usually do; 
He slept each night in an oyster bed 
When work for the day was through. 
An oyster he was, like all the rest, 
Except ambition gnawed his breast. 


The empty shell of a giant clam 
He found one day in the sea. 
“Ah, ha! What luck!” he cried to himself, 
“?T will make a fine house for me.” 
He pried himself from his own small shell, 
And into the bigger one went to dwell. 


The foolish admired his rise in life; 
The envious burned with hate; 
But common-sense oysters ignored him quite— 
They knew he was not great. 
“His suit’s so large’—some folks will twit— 
“He doesn’t fill out the half of it!” 


From his roomy abode he looked with scorn 
Upon all the smaller fry; 

And thought, “Ah, surely there never have been 
An oyster as big as I.” 

He now had worries and trouble and care— 

The price he paid to have fools stare. 


Fate tempted him on with a turtle-shell— 
The turtle had long since died. 
“At last a place that is fit for me”; 
So he promptly crawled inside. 
“Bah! How have I dwelt in the shell of a clam? 
A place too cramped for the oyster I AM!” 


156 


The shell was so large and he so small 
He tumbled and flopped about. 

The waves washed high, and a sudden jolt 
Sent the oyster sprawling out. 

A hungry fish swam by just them— 

The oyster was never heard of again! 


Joseph Morris. 


UNCONQUERED 


A man may have unconquerable purpose even when he has 
not unconquerable power. “This I resolved on,” says Bunyan— 
“to run, when I can; to go, when I cannot run; and to creep, 
when I cannot go.” 


HAVE fallen once, I have fallen thrice, 
And my wounds are sad to see; 
Yet, brothers of mine, take these for sign 
That I fought courageously. 


If my comrades found it an easy thing 
To pass where I suffered sore, 

Shall they hold me then to the scorn of men 
That I struggled and strove the more? 


Forever God giveth his chosen wings, 
Yet the goal is set for all, 

And swift and high may the winged fly 
Where the earth-bound needs must crawl. 


And my wounds, my bleeding, my strife, my tears 
Shall cry of my victory, 

For they prove each one that I did not shun 
The path that the weaklings flee. 


Theodosia Garrison. 


From “The Earth Cry,” 
Mitchell Kennerley. 


157 


THE CURFEW BELL 


The woods are full of I-can’t-help-it people. They deplore 
an evil, but do nothing toward its correction. The [ll-attend- 
to-that people, on the contrary, first set themselves a goal and 
then, if unable to attain it in one way, attain it in another. 
On autumn Sherwood Anderson’s mother found it necessary to 
restock the larder. The boys of the neighborhood had a habit 
of bombarding houses with cabbage-heads on Hallowe’en in 
order to startle the persons within doors. The future novelist’s 
mother made up her mind to be badly frightened on this occasion 
and to raise a loud outcry. As a result, her household received 
hilarious attention—and a plentiful supply of cabbage-heads. 


|e GLAND’S sun was slowly setting o’er the hill-tops 

far away, 

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, 

And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden 
fair,— 

He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny floating 
hair; 

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she, with lips 
all cold and white, 

Struggled to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not 
ring to-night.” 


“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the 
prison old, 

With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls, dark, 
damp, and cold, 

“T’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die 

At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is nigh. 

Cromwell will not come till sunset’; and her lips grew 
strangely white, 

As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring 
to-night.” 


“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her 
young heart 
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poi- 
soned dart), 
158 


“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy 
shadowed tower ; 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight 
hour. 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right: 

Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring 
to-night!” 


Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her 
thoughtful brow; 

And within her heart’s deep center Bessie made a solemn 
vow. 

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or 
sigh,— 

“At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die.” 

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew 
large and bright ; 

One low murmur, faintly spoken, “Curfew must not ring 
to-night!” 


She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the 
old church door, 

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft 
before. 

Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and 
brow aglow, 

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to 
and fro; 

Then she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray 
of light, 

Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring 
to-night.” 


She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the 
great, dark bell; 

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 
to hell. 

See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of 
curfew now, 


159 


And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, 
and paled her brow. 

Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with 
sudden light, 

As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not 
ring to-night!” 


Out she swung,—far out. The city seemed a speck of 
light below,— 

There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell 
swung to and fro. 

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf heard not 
the bell, 

Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s 
funeral knell. 

Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair 
face white, 

Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: “Curfew shall 
not ring to-night!’ 


It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden 
stepped once more 

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years 
before, 

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that 
she had done 

Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun 

Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads 
of white, 

Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one 
sad night. 


O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; 
and her brow, 

Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces 
now. 

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised 
and torn; 


160 


And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish 
it had worn, 

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with 
misty light. 

“Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. ‘Curfew shall 
not ring to-night!’ 


Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth 
to die, 

All his bright young life before him. ’Neath the darken- 
ing English sky - 

Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love- 
light sweet ; 

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his 
feet. 

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face 
upturned and white, 

Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me; curfew will 
not ring to-night.” 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe. 


ALLIES 


A resolute spirit is the stoutest ally. 


E all like allies— 
Big brothers, fair skies, 
The backing of bankers, 
A cure for all cankers, 
Unchanged public favor 
When matters go ill; 
But though these uphold us 
When troubles enfold us, 
Yet surer and braver 
Than these 
Is I wall. 


St. Clair Adams. 
161 


UNREST 


Content offers us naught but that which we have already. 
Every new acquisition, every step in advance is the reward of 
unrest and rebellion. 


FIERCE unrest seethes at the core 
Of all existing things: 
It was the eager wish to soar 
That gave the gods their wings. 


From what flat wastes of cosmic slime, 
And stung by what quick fire, 

Sunward the restless races climb !— 
Men risen out of mire! 


There throbs through all the worlds that are 
This heart-beat hot and strong, 

And shaken systems, star by star, 
Awake and glow in song. 


But for the urge of this unrest 

These joyous spheres were mute; 
But for the rebel in his breast 

Had man remained a brute. 


When baffled lips demanded speech, 
Speech trembled into birth— 

(One day the lyric word shall reach 
From earth to laughing earth)— 


When man’s dim eyes demanded light 
The light he sought was born— 

His wish, a Titan, scaled the height 
And flung him back the morn! 


From deed to dream, from dream to deed, 
From daring hope to hope, 

The restless wish, the instant need, 
Still lashed him up the slope! 


162 


I sing no governed firmament, 
Cold, ordered, regular— 

I sing the stinging discontent 
That leaps from star to star! 


Don Marquis. 


From “‘Dreams and Dust,”’ 
Doubleday, Page & Co. 


IN FLANDERS FIELDS 


Nature goes her own way, mindless of man, effacing the 
signs of his destructiveness, drowning his discords in the music 
and the beauty of her creative work. It is well that she should, 
else the evidences of our old sorrows, animosities, and failures 
would overwhelm us. Yet great human causes must be kept 
alive and human martyrdom must not be in vain. So felt the 
young poet-soldier who foresaw that he would soon join his 
dead fellows in their cross-marked graves among the poppies. 


N Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 


We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 
Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 


John McCrae. 


From “Poems,” 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 


WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY 


Too many of us hang around and wait for somebody else to 
tell us what to do. We should tell ourselves—and perhaps 
others also. Joseph Chamberlain once said: “On every com- 
mittee of thirteen persons there are twelve who go to the meet- 
ings having given no thought to the subject and ready to re- 
ceive instructions. One goes with his mind made up to give 
those instructions. I make it my business to be that one.” 


E have faith in old proverbs full surely, 
For wisdom has traced what they tell, 
And truth may be drawn up as purely 
From them as it may from a “well.” 
Let us question the thinkers and doers, 
And hear what they honestly say, 
And you'll find they believe, like bold wooers, 
In “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 


The hills have been high for man’s mounting, 
The woods have been dense for his ax, 
The stars have been thick for his counting, 
The sands have been wide for his tracks, 
The sea has been deep for his diving, 
The poles have been broad for his sway, 
But bravely he’s proved by his striving, 
That “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 
Have ye vices that ask a destroyer, 
Or passions that need your control? 
Let Reason become your employer, 
And your body be ruled by your soul. 
Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial, 
Resist with all strength that ye may, 
Ye may conquer Sin’s host by denial, 
For “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 


Have ye poverty’s pinching to cope with? 
Does suffering weigh down your might? 
Only call up a spirit to hope with, 
And dawn may come out of the night. 
164 


Oh! much may be done by defying 
The ghost of Despair and Dismay, 
And much may be gained by relying 
On “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 


Should you see afar off that worth winning, 
Set out on a journey with trust, 
And ne’er heed though your path at beginning 
Should be among brambles and dust. 
Though it is by footsteps ye do it, 
And hardships may hinder and stay, 
Keep a heart and be sure you go through it, 
For “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 


Eliza Cook. 
AMBITION’S TRAIL 


We do not strive for ourselves alone. Whether we wish it 
or not, we constantly strive in behalf of others. 


F all the end of this continuous striving 
Were simply to attain, 
How poor would seem the planning and contriving 
The endless urging and the hurried driving 
Of body, heart and brain! 


But ever in the wake of true achieving, 
There shines this glowing trail— 
Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving 
New strength and hope, in its own power believing, 
Because thou didst not fail. 


Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, 
If thou dost miss the goal, 
Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow 
From thee their weakness or their force shall 
borrow— 
On, on, ambitious soul. 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 


From ‘‘Custer and Other Poems,” 
W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, Ill. 


165 


OLD IRONSIDES 


Holmes, when a law student barely past his twenty-first birth- 
day, read a newspaper paragraph to the effect that the historic 
old frigate Constitution, popularly called Old Ironsides, was con- 
demned for destruction by the Navy Department. With a lead 
pencil he dashed off the following stanzas. Published in a news- 
paper, they were copied and recopied throughout the country 
and roused such a furor that the Secretary of the Navy made 
haste to revoke the order. It was a lesson we needed in rev- 
erence for past heroism. It was also, as has been pointed out, 
probably the only instance in which a college boy’s verses changed 
a government policy. 


Y, tear her tattered ensign down! 
Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 
And burst the cannon’s roar ;— 
The meteor of the ocean air 
Shall sweep the clouds no more! 


Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 
Or know the conquered knee ;— 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 


O better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms,— 
The lightning and the gale! 


Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
166 


POLITENESS 


A man once boasted to the Spartans that he could stand 
longer on one leg than any other human being. The Spartans 
answered contemptuously that a common goose could beat him 
at his own game. So it is with impoliteness; the qualities 
necessary to display it are not of a very noble kind. True 
politeness, on the other hand, wins respect and affection. Billy 
Evans, the umpire, says he must have miscalled first and last 
a good many strikes on Walter Johnson, yet had never had 
even a dirty look from him. Sometimes the catcher was out- 
raged, but Johnson would wave him back and say, “That one was 
no good. It was too low.” Naturally, Evans thinks Johnson 
about the finest man who ever wore a baseball uniform. 


| ie my youth I knew an aleck who was most exceeding 
smart, and his flippant way of talking often broke 
the hearer’s heart. He was working for a grocer in a 
little corner store, taking down the wooden shutters, 
sweeping up the greasy floor, and he always answered 
pertly, and he had a sassy eye, and the people often asked 
him if he wouldn’t kindly die. Oh, the festive years 
skedaddled, and the children of that day, now are bent 
beneath life’s burdens, and their hair is turning gray; and 
the flippant one is toiling in the same old corner store, 
taking down the ancient shutters, sweeping up the greasy 
floor. In the same old sleepy village lived a springald 
so polite that to hear him answer questions was a genuine 
delight; he was working in a foundry where they dealt 
in eggs and cheese, and the work was hard and tiresome, 
but he always tried to please. And to-day he’s boss of 
thousands, and his salary’s sky high—and his manner’s 
just as pleasant as it was in days gone by. It’s an idle, 
trifling story, and you doubtless think it flat, but its 
moral might be pasted with some profit in your hat. 


Walt Mason. 


Copyright, 1910. 
Permission of George Matthew Adams. 


OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
BE PROUD? 


This poem, with its humble spirit and melancholy strain, was 
one of Lincoln’s favorites. 


H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
Like a swift-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 


The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around, and together be laid; 

As the young and the old, the low and the high, 
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie. 


The child that a:mother attended and loved, 

The mother that infant’s affection who proved, 

The husband that mother and the infant who blessed,— 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 


The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by; 
And alike from the minds of the living erased 

Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised. 


The hand of the king, that the scepter hath borne; 
The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn; 
The eyes of the sage, and the heart of the brave,— 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 


The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; 

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,— 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 


The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, 

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 


168 


So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, 
That withers away to let others succeed; 

So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that has often been told. 


For we are the same things our fathers have been; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen; 
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have run. 


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think; 
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink; 
To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling, 

But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing. 


They loved,—but the story we cannot unfold; 

They scorned,—but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
They grieved,—but no wail from their slumbers will come; 
They joyed,—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 


They died,—ah! they died ;—we, things that are now, 
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 

And make in their dwellings a transient abode, 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. 


Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain: 

And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, 
Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 


’Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud; 
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 


William Knox. 
169 


THE PRESENT CRISIS 


This poem, though it might be applied to any period or con- 
dition, was written when the United States was agitated over 
the proposal to annex Texas. Lowell opposed annexation be- 
cause he felt it would mean the opening of new territory to 
slavery. 


HEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the 

broad earth’s aching breast 

Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east 
to west, 

And the slave, where’er he cowers, feels the soul within 
him climb | 

To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 

Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem 
of Time. 


Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- 
taneous throe, 

When the travail of the Ages wrings earth’s systems to 
and fro; 

At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 

Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips 
apart, 

And glad Truth’s yet mightier man-child leaps beneath 
the Future’s heart. 


So the Evil’s triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, 

Under continent to continent, the sense or coming ill, 

And the slave, where’er he cowers, feels his sympathies 
with God 

In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by 
the sod, 

Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler 
clod. 


For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along. 
Round the earth’s electric circle, the swift flash of right 
or wrong; 


4 


170 


Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity’s vast 


frame 

Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy 
or shame ;— | 

In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal 
claim. 


Once to every man and nation comes the moment to 
decide, 

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 
evil side; 

Some great cause, God’s new Messiah, offering each the 
bloom or blight, 

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon 
the right, 

And the choice goes by forever ’twixt that darkness and 
that light. 


Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt 
stand, 

Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 
against our land? 

Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet ’tis Truth alone is 


strong, 

And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 
throng 

Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from 
all wrong. 


Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments 
see, 

That, like peaks of some sunk continent, just through 
Oblivion’s sea; 

Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry 

Of those Crises, God’s stern winnowers, from whose feet 
earth’s chaff must fly; 

Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath 
passed by. 

I7k 


Careless seems the great Avenger; history’s pages but 
record 

One death-grapple in the darkness ’twixt old systems and 
the Word; 

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the 
throne,— 

Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim 
unknown, 

Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above 
his own. 


We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is 
great, 

Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
of fate, 

But the soul is still oracular ; amid the market’s din, 

List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
within,— | 

“They enslave their children’s children who make com- 
promise with sin.” 


Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, 

Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 
the earth with blood, 

Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer 
day, 

Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey ;— 

Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless chil- 
dren play? 


Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her 
wretched crust, 

Ere her cause ‘ring fame and profit, and tis prosperous 
to be just; 

Then it is ne brave man chooses, while the coward stands 
aside, 

Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 

And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had 
denied. 

172 


Count me o’er earth’s chosen heroes,—they were souls 
that stood alone, 

While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious 
stone, 

Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam 
incline 

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith 
divine, 

By one man’s plain truth to manhood and to God’s 
supreme design. 


By the light of burning heretics Christ’s bleeding feet I 
track, 

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns 
not back, 

And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- 
tion learned 

One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- 
hearts hath burned 

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to 
heaven upturned. 


For Humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr 
stands, 

On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his 
hands ; 

Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling 
fagots burn, 

While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return 

To glean up the scattered ashes into History’s golden urn. 


*Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers’ graves, 

Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a 
crime ;— 

Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men 
behind their time? 

Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make 
Plymouth Rock sublime? 


173 


They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, 

Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 
Past's ; 

But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that 
hath made us free, 

Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 
spirits flee 

The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them 
across the sea. 


They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors 
to our sires, 

Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom’s new-lit altar- 
fires ; 

Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our 
haste to slay, 

From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral 
lamps away 

To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of 
to-day? 


New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient 
good uncouth; | 

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
abreast of Truth; 

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must 
Pilgrims be, 

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the 
desperate winter sea, 

Nor attempt the Future’s portal with the Past’s blood- 
rusted key. 

James Russell Lowell. 


A FOUR LEAF CLOVER 


HAT we call Luck is simply Pluck, 
And the doing things over and over; 
Courage and will, perseverance and skill, 
Are the four leaves of Luck’s clover. 
Anonymous, 


174 


IN THE BEGINNING 


“All men’s souls are immortal, but the souls of the righteous 
are immortal and divine.”—Socrates. 


HE great God dreamed a dream through me, 
Mighty as dream of God could be; 

He made me a victorious man, 

Shaped me unto a perfect plan, 

Summoned me forth to radiant birth 

Upon the radiant earth. 

He lavished gifts within my hand, 

Gave me the power to command 

The thundering forces that he hurled 

Upon the seething world... . 

Creation’s dream was wondrous good 

Had I but understood. 

The great God dreamed a dream through me, 

But I was blind and could not see. 

My royal gifts were laid in rust, 

For parentage, I claimed the dust. 

Decay and sorrow, age and blight— 

These gifts I deemed my right. 


The great God spoke a word through me— 

That word was Life. How can it be 

That I, in God’s own substance made, 

Should face the universe, afraid? 

Born of eternal life am I— 

Why should I fail and die? 

O God, so huge was thine intent, 

So greatly was thy passion spent, 

This counterfeit is not the plan 

That Thou didst dream for man. 

’Tis this: Man’s dream must mate with thine. 

Man’s word, man’s life, must be divine; 

Man must be conscious through and through 

To make Thy dream come true! 

_ Angela Morgan. 

Permission of the Author. 


From “‘The Hour Has Struck,” 
Dodd, Mead & Co. 


175 


JUST WHISTLE A BIT 


Cheerfulness renews courage, as Anteus felt his strength 
renewed whenever he touched mother Earth. 


UST whistle a bit, if the day be dark, 
And the sky be overcast ; 
If mute be the voice of the piping lark, 
Why, pipe your own small blast. 


And it’s wonderful how o’er the gray sky-track 
The truant warbler comes stealing back. 

But why need he come? for your soul’s at rest, 
And the song in the heart,—ah, that is best. 


Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear 
And the stars refuse to shine: 

And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear 
Within you glows benign, 


Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies 
Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. 
What matters the absence of moon or star? 
The light within is the best by far. 


Just whistle a bit, if there’s work to do, 
With the mind or in the soil. 

And your note will turn out a talisman true 
To exorcise grim Toil. 


Tt will lighten your burden and make you feel 

That there’s nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. 

And with song in your heart and the meal in—its 
lace, 

There'll be joy in your bosom and light in your face. 


Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore 
*Tis a wonderful balm for pain. 

Just pipe some old melody o’er and o’er 
Till it soothes like summer rain. 


176 


And perhaps ’twould be best in a later day, 
When Death comes stalking down the way, 
To knock at your bosom and see if you’re fit, 
Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit. 


Paul Laurence Dunbar. 


From “Complete Poems,” 
Dodd, Mead & Co. 


LIFE IS STRUGGLE 


The goal we struggle for is not after all the true one. The 
struggle itself is the true goal. Since there is no such thing 
as life without struggle, we should make the struggle strenuous 
and manly. Roosevelt once said: “In life, as in a football 
game, the principle to follow is: Hit the line hard; don’t foul 
and don’t shirk, but hit the line hard.” 


O wear out heart, and nerves, and brain, 
And give oneself a world of pain; 
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot, 
Imperious, supple—God knows what, 
For what’s all one to have or not; 
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain! 
For ’tis not joy, it is not gain, 
It is not in itself a bliss, 
Only it is precisely this 
That keeps us all alive. 


To say we truly feel the pain, 
And quite are sinking with the strain ;— 
Entirely, simply, undeceived, 
Believe, and say we ne’er believed 
The object, e’en were it achieved, 
A thing we e’er had cared to keep; 
With heart and soul to hold it cheap, 
And then to go and try it again; 
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain! 
O, ’tis not joy, and ’tis not bliss, 
Only it is precisely this 
That keeps us still alive. 
Arthur Hugh Clough. 


177 


TRUE HEROISM 


A Spartan boy, challenged while he was carrying a fox under 
his cloak, let the animal tear his vitals out rather than betray 
the fact that he had it. The lower impulses against which 
every human being must struggle are hidden from other people, 
as the fox was. They may lacerate us; but if we are brave, 
they cannot, like the fox, destroy us. 


ET others write of battles fought, 
Of bloody, ghastly fields, 
Where honor greets the man who wins, 
And death the man who yields; 
But I will write of him who fights 
And vanquishes his sins, 
Who struggles on through weary years 
Against himself, and wins, 


He is a hero staunch and brave 
Who fights an unseen foe, 

And puts at last beneath his feet 
His passions base and low; 

Who stands erect in manhood’s might, 
Undaunted, undismayed, 

The bravest man who ere drew sword 
In foray or in raid. 


It calls for something more than brawn 
Or muscle, to o’ercome 
An enemy who marcheth not 
With banner, plume, and drum; 
A foe forever lurking nigh, 
With silent, stealthy tread ; 
Forever near your board by day, 
At night beside your bed. 


All honor, then, to that brave heart! 
Though poor or rich he be, 

Who struggles with his baser part, 
Who conquers and is free. 


178 


He may not wear a hero’s crown, 
Or fill a hero’s grave, 
But truth will place his name among 
The bravest of the brave. 
Anonymous. 


WHAT INDEED 2 
“Cheer up; the worst is yet to come.’ This slogan, popular 


a few years ago, still has much to commend it. A much- 
traveled lady was once airing the extent of her experience. 


“When I was in Japan, I saw this. ... When I was in Greece, 
I saw that.” “Madam,” interrupted one of her auditors, “did 
you ever have the D. T.’s?” “Of course not.” “Then you’ve 


never seen ANYTHING.” 


HE road’s a trifle hard ahead; 
What of it? 
With shadows somewhat thickly spread; 
What of it? 
Since when has life been turned into 
A clover patch where dreams come true? 
You’ve got hard work to scramble through— 


What of it? 

You say the luck is breaking tough? 
What of it? 

The deal’s unfair—the scrap is rough— 
What of it? 


The top is always on a hill 
With many a sharp and sudden spill, 
And if the gales are raw and shrill 
What of it? 
They’ve slammed you back at every start? 
What of it? 
They’ve held you to a minor part? 
What of it? 
Since when, where frowning ramparts barred, 
Has any quitter starred? 
You may be battered, bruised and scarred— 
What of it? 
Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author. 
From “The Sportlight.” 


179 


INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 


This incident illustrates, not only the love of the French 
se for Napoleon, but also their dashing and spectacular 
valor. 


OU know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 
A mile or so away, 

On a little mound, Napoleon 
Stood on our storming-day ; 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
Legs wide, arms locked behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow 
Oppressive with its mind. 


Just as perhaps he mused “My plans 
That soar, to earth may fall, 

Let once my army-leader Lannes 
Waver at yonder wall,’— 

Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
A rider, bound on bound 

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 
Until he reached the mound. 


Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
And held himself erect 
By just his horse’s mane, a boy: 
You hardly could suspect— 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two. z 


“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace 
We've got you Ratisbon! 

The Marshal’s in the market-place, 
And you'll be there anon 

To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
Where I, to heart’s desire, 

Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans 
Soared up again like fire. 


180 


The chief’s eye flashed; but presently 
Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle’s eye 
When her bruised eaglet breathes ; 
“You're wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride 
Touched to the quick, he said: 
“Y’m killed, Sire!’ And his chief beside, 
Smiling the boy fell dead. 
Rabert Browning. 


CONQUERING FATE 


During the War of 1812 a young officer was shot in the thigh 
with a barbed arrow. “Pull out that arrow,” he bade a soldier. 
The soldier said he couldn’t. The officer drew a pistol. “T’ll 
shoot you if you don’t.” The arrow removed, he rushed into 
the battle again. Many years later he led the Texans in their 
struggle for independence. After terrible marches and a fight 
against odds, he defeated the Mexicans and captured their 
leader. Under the nose of that leader he thrust a gnawed ear 
of corn. “Do you ever expect to conquer men who fight for 
freedom, when their general can march four days with one ear 
of corn for his rations?” Santa Anna didn’t. He agreed that 
Texas should belong to the people of Sam Houston’s race. 


LIKE the man who faces what he must 

With step triumphant and a heart of cheer; 

Who fights the daily battle without fear; 
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust 
That God is God; that somehow, true and just 

His plans work out for mortals; not a tear 

Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear, 
Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crust 
Than living in dishonor ; envies not, 

Nor loses faith in man; but does his best 
Nor ever mourns over his humbler lot, 

But with a smile and words of hope, gives zest 
To every toiler; he alone is great, 
Who by a life heroic conquers fate. 

Sarah K. Bolton. 


From “The Youth’s Companion.” 


181 


THE MUSHROOM AND THE OAK 


This parable is for the won’t-take-time-to-grow people; people 
who want short cuts to education, prominence, wealth; people 
who have an eye for the ridgepole but none for the founda- 
tion. The question is whether one should set more value on 
present show than on future attainment. The plodder who keeps 
faithfully at it accomplishes more than if he were blessed, or 
cursed, with spasmodic brilliance. 


MUSHROOM popped through the ground 
one day 
Where the soil was wet with the dew, 
And it looked about in its mushroom way, 
And saw that a sapling grew 
Close by, and being inclined to chat 
A bit since its sudden birth, 
It asked, with a nod of its umbrella hat, 
“How long have you been on earth?” 
“Some three or four years or more,” said the tree; 
The mushroom’s amazement grew: 
“Such a scrawny thing I never did see— 
A broom’s bigger round than you!” 


“TI came from an acorn, but will be an oak,” 
The sapling humbly replied. 

The mushroom swaggered a bit as it spoke, 
It could not conceal its pride. 

“Now just look at me—I was born last night— 
My head measures twice your size. 

I feel so utterly sorry for you 
I swear there are tears in my eyes.” 

The sapling bent as the wind came along, 
And rustled its leaves in the breeze: 

“I grow very slow but I grow very strong; 
It’s the way, I think, of all trees.” 


The mushroom asked when the sun burned hot, 
“Where, friend, do you get a drink?” 

“My roots reach down to a cool moist spot.” 
“Long roots are a bother, I think.” 


182 


The mushroom’s edge curled up in the sun; 
It shriveled away and grew brown. 

“T fear I shall choke ere the day is done— 
Please let your shade fall down. 

Oh thanks for sending that shadow my way, 
It refreshes me like a fountain; 

I'll let you rest on my side some day 
When I grow as big as a mountain.” 


The oak heard a gasp, a groan, a sputter— 
The mushroom lay in a heap! 

Of its mountain-size it tried to mutter, 
And then fell forever asleep. 

The tree was sorry to see such an end 
For one so proud at the dawn; 

Only dust was left of his upstart friend, 
And that the cows trod on. 


They switched their tails in the shade of this oak, 
That grew as the years went by, 

A noble tree from a funny slow-poke, 
A giant that loomed ’gainst the sky. 


Joseph Morris. 


MIND 


: IS the Mind that makes the body rich; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 
What, is the jay more precious than the lark, 
Because his feathers are more beautiful? 
Or is the adder better than the eel, 
Because his painted skin contents the eye? 


William Shakespeare. 


183 


FELLOW WHO HAD DONE HIS BEST 


That he shall do his best is all that can reasonably be asked 
of any man. That is, unless he does his best as the negro did 
his part when solicited for a donation to the library. “Ah fig- 
gers,” said he, “dat w’en Ah goes over dah and reads de papers 
ever’ day, Ah’s ’bout done mah paht.” 


ELLOW who had done his best 
Went one morning to his rest; 

Never lip his forehead pressed— 
Not one rose on his still breast. 
But the angels knew that day 
How along the rocky way 
He had traveled for that rest— 
Fellow who had done his best! 


No one, as he trudged along, 

Knew the sigh was in the song; 

No one heard his poor heart beat 
Where the sharp thorns pierced his feet. 
But that day—the day he died— 
There were angels at his side, 

Angels singing him to rest— 

Fellow who had done his best. 


For the room was strangely bright, 
And his face, in morning light, 
Had a smile that seemed to say: 
“After darkness comes the day! 

All the grief—the gloom is past, 
And the morning’s mine at last !” 

Far he’d traveled for that rest— 
Fellow who had done his best. 


Never sermon, song or sigh 

Went that day toward the sky; 
But God’s lilies—violets sweet, 
Decked his grave at head and feet; 


184 


And the birds, in shadows dim, 
Sang their sweetest over him. 
He that went that way for rest— 
Fellow who had done his best. 


Frank L. Stanton. 
Printed in and permission from 
“The Atlanta Constitution.” 


THE FAILURES 


To have failed is hard enough, without being made to feel 
the scorn of those who succeeded. 


E who have failed, remember this of us— 
Oh you, whose hands have grasped the luminous 
And lovely thing that is your soul’s desired, 
Though once we fell and blundered on the 
way, 
Though now we turn shamed faces from the 
day, 
Remember this—that once we too aspired. 


We who have failed through weakness or surmise, 
Be gentle with us if we turn our eyes 
Sometimes from sight of those victorious, 
Crowned and exultant on the farthest height, 
Seeing that once we watched our arms by 
night, 
Seeing that once we dreamed to triumph thus. 


We who have failed in life and love and task, 
Surely not overmuch this gift we ask. 
Be not too scornful, you, whose glorious, 
Undaunted souls pressed on through flood 
and fire, 
Of those too weak to grasp a great desire. 
We who have failed, remember this of us. 
Theodosia Garrison. 
From “The Joy o’ Life,” 
Mitchell Kennerley. 


185 


MY STOUT OLD HEART AND I 


In most of our wars America has suffered because her troops 
were enlisted for short periods of service. Just when the men 
were becoming seasoned, their term expired. It was not until 
men enlisted for extended campaigns or, better, for the war 
that they became true comrades in arms and won needed 
victories. 


Y stout old heart and I are friends, 
Two bivouac friends together! 
Nor daily wars, nor daily blows, 
Have called out our white feather. 
‘We've listed till the campaign ends— 
For calm or stormy weather. 


My stout old heart and I have been 
Through serious scenes of trouble. 

We've been denied; our hopes have died; 
Our load’s been more than double, 

And yet we've lived. And we have seen 
Some griefs in Lethe bubble. 


My stout old heart and I have fought 
Some bitter fights to ending ; 

And if or not we’ve victory got, 
We've not been hurt past mending! 

The wounds are all in front we’ve caught, 
And easier for the tending. 


My stout old heart and I, you see, 
We understand each other. 

Old comrade true, my hand to you! 
On honor, tell me whether 

You’re daunted yet?—“To arms!” beats he, 
“Retreat is for another!” 


Eyes right! Guide center! Forward march! 
Dress where the colors fly! 
Six feet of ground or triumph’s arch— 
My stout old heart and I! 
E. Hough. 


186 


BECOMING A MAN 
Character cannot be weighed in pounds. 


I USED to think, when I was small, that all I need to 

do 

To be a man, was just grow up. That was before I knew 

So much of grown-up males who lack as much that man- 
hood needs 

As when they were but juveniles and dreamed of manly 
deeds. 

So I have learned this much, at least, since when my life 
began: 

It takes much more than growing up to be a real man. 


“When I grow up and be a man,” you hear the small 
boys say, 

As if by merely growing large they should be men some 
day. 

But, knowing manhood’s requisites in larger sense, they’ll 
learn 

There’s much besides their body growth for which they 
ought to yearn. 

The stately St. Bernard is more than just a larger pup— 

It takes much more to be a man, than just a-growing up! 


Fine breadth of vision, self-control, a boundless charity, 

A gentler tongue, a stronger faith, more perfect clarity 

In spirit-vision; patience vast—more patience still, and 
more ; 


Wisdom to know—and to forget—all that has gone 
before; 

Courage to smile though sorrow fill unto its brim your 
cup— 

More is required, to make a man, than merely growing 
up! 

Strickland Gillilan. 
From “Including You and Me,” 
Forbes & Co. 


187 


NOT UNDERSTOOD 


Cooper’s novel The Spy, the basic situation of which was 
taken from life, portrays a peddler whom our Revolutionary 
forefathers ostracized and persecuted because he was considered 
a secret agent of the British. Not until long afterward was it 
learned that in playing this detested rdle he had been serving 
his country, had been obtaining for George Washington in- 
formation of the greatest value. 


OT understood. We move along asunder. 
Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep 
Along the years; we marvel and we wonder 
Why life is life? And then we fall asleep— 
Not understood. 


Not understood. We gather false impressions, 
And hug them closer as the years go by, 
Till virtues often seem to us transgressions ; 
And thus men rise and fall, and live and die— 
Not understood. 


Not understood. Poor souls with stunted vision 
Oft measure giants by their narrow gauge; 
The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision 
Are oft impelled ’gainst those who mould the 
age— 
Not understood. 


Not understood. The secret springs of action 
Which lie beneath the surface and the show, 
Are disregarded ; with self-satisfaction 
We judge our neighbors, and they often go— 
Not understood. 


Not understood. How trifles often change us! 
The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight 
Destroys long years of friendship, and estrange us, 
And on our souls there falls a freezing blight— 
Not understood. 


188 


Not understood. How many breasts are aching 
For lack of sympathy! Ah, day by day 
How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking! 
How many noble spirits pass away— 

Not understood. 


O God! that men would see a little clearer, 
Or judge less harshly where they cannot see; 
O God! that men would draw a little nearer 
To one another; they’d be nearer Thee— 
And understood. 


Thomas Bracken. 
From “Musings in Maoriland.” 


THE CERTAIN VICTORY 


“True courage is like a kite; a contrary wind raises it higher.” 
Of the truth of this saying the following poem gives a good 
illustration. 


HY should I sit in doubt or fear? If I 
Awake some morning from that dreaded sleep 
To find myself new-born and lifted high, 
Then I will turn, and, looking o’er the deep 
That lies beneath me, shout for glee and throw 
A. last good-by at Pain and Fear, below. 


But what if, at the last, no light shall break— 

If this is all—if when I fall asleep 
No angel’s voice shall sweetly cry “Awake,” 

And there shall be but Nothing, dark and deep— 
Ah, well, I shall not care if it be so, 

I'll triumph still, for I shall never know. 


S. E. Kiser. 


Permission of the Author. 


189 


RIENZ?S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS 


Rienzi was a Roman of the fourteenth century who sought 
to restore the ancient glory and power of his city. He over- 
threw the nobles and for a time ruled Rome, but proved him- 
self vain and tyrannical, and at last was slain. 


COME not here to talk. You know too well 
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves! 

The bright sun rises in his course, and lights 
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams 
Fall on a slave; not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led 
To crimson glory and undying fame,— 
But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords, 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages; 
Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great 
In that strange spell—a name! 

Each hour dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cries out against them. But this very day, 
An honest man, my neighbor,—there he stands,— 
Was struck—struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 
At sight of that great rufhan! Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. 
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, 
I had a brother once—a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look 
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. 

How I loved 

That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years, 
Brother at once and son! He left my side, 
A summer bloom on his fair cheek; a smile 


190 


Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 
That pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves! 
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained, 
Dishonored ; and if ye dare call for justice, 
Be answered by the lash. 

Yet this is Rome 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world! and we are Romans. 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king! 

And once again,— 
Hear me, ‘ye walls that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus! Once again, I swear, 
The eternal city shall be free. 

Mary Russell Mitford. 


MAY iT BE MINE 


By sharing in the joy of another we increase it. By sharing 
in the woe of another we diminish it. 


F any round about me play, 
And dance and sing in glad array, 
And laugh and cheer, 
May it be mine to see and hear. 


If any toil at noble things, 

And strive the higher levellings 
To reach and win, 

May it be mine to join therein. 


If any grieve or suffer pain, 
And tears fall like the summer rain 
From troubled skies, 
May it be mine to sympathize! 
John Kendrick Bangs. 


From “Songs of Cheer.’ 
Permission of the Veen s Estate. 


IOI 


SAND 


A man whose hold is unsteady has no business wielding an 
ax, swinging a baseball bat, or steering a bobsled. Whatever 
your job, you should for your own sake, if not for that of 
others, make sure of your grip. 


OBSERVED a locomotive in the railroad yards one 
day, 
It was waiting in the roundhouse where the locomotives 
stay ; 
It was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully 
manned, 
And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. 


It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip 

On their slender iron pavement, ’cause the wheels are apt 
to slip; 

And when they reach a slippery spot their tactics they 
command, 

And to get a grip upon the rail they sprinkle it with sand. 


It’s about the way with travel aizng life’s slippery track, 

If your load is rather heavy you’re always slipping back; 

So, if a common locomotive you completely understand, 

You'll provide yourself in starting with a good supply 
of sand. 


If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy 
grade, 

If those who’ve gone before you have the rails quite 
slippery made, 

If you ever reach the summit of the upper table land, 

You'll find you’ll have to do it with a liberal use of sand. 


If you strike some frigid weather and discover to your 
cost, 

That you’re liable to slip up on a heavy coat of frost, 

Then some prompt decided action will be called into 
demand, 

And you'll slip ’way to the bottom if you haven’t any sand. 


192 


You can get to any station that is on life’s schedule seen 

If there’s fire beneath the boiler of ambition’s strong 
machine. 

And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of 
speed that’s grand, 

If for all the slippery places you’ve a good supply of sand. 


Anonymous. 


“TOLLABLE WELL!” 


We are prone to forget the art of striking averages. We 
see some calamity in the present, and do not reflect that past 
benefits and future promises overbalance it. Nay, we do not 
see the present itself as a whole, but only in part; for when all 
is reckoned, the assets exceed the liabilities. Helen Keller, 
who lacks the power to hear, or to see, not only has accomplished 
much; she thinks life emphatically worth while. 


PITE o’ the tempests a-blowin’, 
Still had one story to tell: 
Bright, sunny weather, or snowin’, 
Allus felt ‘“‘tollable well.’ 


Half o’ the settlement sighin’— 
Things gone to ruin, pell-mell! 

Never did hear him a-cryin’-— 
Allus felt “‘tollable well!’ 


’Course he had trouble an’ sorrow 
(Come to us all fer a spell), 

But, seein’ a brighter to-morrow, 
He allus felt “tollable well.” 


Frank L. Stanton. 


Printed in and permission from 
“The Atlanta Constitution.” 


193 


LAND ON YOUR FEET 


When Drake in the Golden Hind was ravaging the Spanish 
territory along the western coast of South America, the Spaniards 
sent ships to cut off his retreat through the Straits of Magellan. 
This done, they were sure they had him. But Drake struck 
across the Pacific, an ocean the Spaniards regarded as their 
shit and became the first Englishman to circumnavigate the 
globe. 


OU take a cat up by the tail, 
And whirl him round and round, 
And hurl him out into the air, 
Out into space profound, 
He through the yielding atmosphere 
Will many a whirl complete ; 
But when he strikes upon the ground 
He'll land upon his feet. 


Fate takes a man, just like a cat, 
And, with more force than grace, 

It whirls him wiggling round and round, 
And hurls him into space; 

And those that fall upon the back, 
Or land upon the head, 

Fate lets them lie there where they fall— 
They’re just as good as dead. 


But some there be that, like the cat, 
Whirl round and round and round, 

And go gyrating off through space, 
Until they strike the ground; 

But when at last the ground and they 
Do really come to meet, 

You'll always find them right side up— 
They land upon their feet. 


And such a man walks off erect, 
Triumphant and elate, 

And with a courage in his heart 
He shakes his fist at fate; 


194 


Then fate with a benignant smile 
Upon its face outspread, 

Puts forth its soft, caressing hand 
And pats him on the head. 


And he’s fate’s darling from that day, 
His triumph is complete; 

Fate loves the man who whirls and whirls, 
But lands upon his feet. 

That man, whate’er his ups and downs, 
Is never wholly spurned, 

Whose perpendicularity 
Is never overturned. 


Sam Walter Foss. 
From “Whiffs from Wild Meadows,” 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


A MATTER OF DIRECTION 


It’s not who we are, nor where we are. It’s all in the direction 
we face. 


iL by side on the sands of the beach 

Two children sat and pondered ; 

But one faced south and one faced north, 

And their pensive looks ne’er wandered. 

I said, ‘While the sands on your bare, brown feet 
Beat their warm, fond bastinado, 

What gaze you at?’ One said, “The sun”; 

The other said, “My shadow.” 


Side by side on the sands of life 
We stand while the days are passing, 
And the eyes of the soul which needs must glean 
Are varied stores amassing. 
Your eyes gaze dim on arid murk, 
Mine bright on an El Dorado— 
The gloom is your own; if you face the sun, 
You will never see your shadow. 


St. Clair Adams. 
195 


A PHILOSOPHY 


Obstacles call for the exercise of our full energy. They 
develop us. If a steamship goes against a hard wind, its fires 
burn more fiercely. If such birds as the dove, the albatross, and. 
the eagle fly against the wind, they are said to buffet their way 
along more swiftly. If a hyena comes upon the bones which 
a lion has gnawed and abandoned, he cracks them with his 
powerful jaws, sucks out the marrow, and even crunches and 
swallows the bones themselves for the acids of his stomach to 
dissolve. 


HIS, then, is the main idea I hold— 
Existence, where it can, holds each at bay; 

It may be heat or hunger, pain or cold, 
But there is always something in the way 
That each must batter down to reach the goal 
Which does not lead to any flare or flame, 
But say—a certain hardiness of soul 
That does not fear the rigor of the game. 


I, too, would like to dream of pleasant ease, 

Of soft and gentle living, free of ills, 

And yet I know, beyond the summer trees, 

The storms of winter hurry through the hills. 

IT know how hard the hand of fate can fall 

On those too safely sheltered from all pain, 

Too long unscarred to stand and take it all ) 
And then drive through to find some greater gain. 


I know the storm may break in sullen mood 
Where there may be no shelter in the vale, 
Except the strong, wide roof of fortitude 
That turns aside the lightning and the gale; 
And if my share of trouble is too light, 
While I, too long, walk over rockless ground, 
I know some day that I must face the fight 
Too poorly trained to last beyond a round. 


Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author, 
From “The Sportlight.” 


196 


O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 


The author of this famous dirge for Lincoln saw the great 
President many times during the war, and the two came to 
“exchange bows, and very cordial ones.” He regarded Lincoln 
as “the greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral person- 
ality” in our history. Lincoln, on his part, when informed who 
Whitman was, exclaimed with emphasis, “Well, he looks like 
a MAN.” 

CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we 
sought is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring ; 
But O heart! heart! heart! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle 
trills, 
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the 
shores a-crowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 
Here Captain! dear father! 
This arm beneath your head! 
It is some dream that on the deck, 
You’ve fallen cold and dead. 
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed 
and done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 
won ; 
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! 
But I with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 
Walt Whitman. 


197 


THE SONG OF THE CAMP 


This incident of the Crimean War illustrates the tenderness 
which underlies true bravery. The same quality is illustrated 
even more strikingly in a story told of General Lee at Get- 
tysburg. As the great general withdrew from the field which he 
doubtless knew to be fatal to his cause, a wounded Federal 
soldier, recognizing him, shouted tauntingly, “Hurrah for the 
Union!” Lee dismounted and approached the prostrate soldier 
with intent, as the latter thought, to kill him. But the sorely 
tried leader merely grasped the man by the hand and said, “My 
son, I hope you will soon be well.” 


ss IVE us a song!” the soldiers cried, 


The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 


The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 


There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
“We storm the forts to-morrow; 
Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow.” 


They lay along the battery’s side, 
Below the smoking cannon: 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 


They sang of love, and not of fame; 
Forgot was Britain’s glory: 

Each heart recalled a different name, 
But all sang “Annie Laurie.” 


Voice after voice caught up the song, 
Until its tender passion 

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— 
Their battle-eve confession. 


198 


Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier’s cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 


Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset’s embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 


And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 
With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars! 


And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” 


Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 
The bravest are the tenderest,— 
The loving are the daring. 
Bayard Taylor. 


JOY CALLS FOR TWO 
Sorrow is solitary, but joy demands company. 


ATURE, in zeal for human amity, 

Denies, or damps, an undivided joy. 

Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; 

Joy flies monopolists: it calls for two; 

Rich fruit! Heav’n planted! never pluck’t by one. 


Edward Young. 
199 


TO HIS MOTHER, C. L. M. 


For every man a great sacrifice has been made. Every true 
man is gratefully mindful of it. When the squadron under 
Dewey arrived at Manila Bay just before the battle with the 
Spanish ships, a sailor asked permission to jump overboard 
for his coat, which somehow had fallen into the water. He 
was refused, jumped anyhow, climbed aboard again with the 
coat, and was promptly arrested. Dewey summoned the man 
and inquired why he had disobeyed orders. The sailor broke 
down. “In the pocket,” he explained, “was my mother’s picture, 
and I didn’t want to lose it.” Dewey had him released. 


N the dark womb where I began 
My mother’s life made me a man. 
Through all the months of human birth 
Her beauty fed my common earth. 
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir 
But through the death of some of her. 


Down in the darkness of the grave 
She cannot see the life she gave. 
For all her love, she cannot tell 
Whether I use it ill or well, 

Nor knock at dusty doors to find 
Her beauty dusty in the mind. 


If the grave’s gates would be undone, 
She would not know her little son, 
Iam so grown. If we should meet, 
She would pass by me in the street, 
Unless my soul’s face let her see 

My sense of what she did for me. 


What have I done to keep 1n mind 

My debt to her and womankind? 

What woman’s happier life repays 

Her for some months of wretched days? 
For all my mouthless body leech’d 

Ere Birth’s releasing hell was reach’d? 


200 


What have I done, or tried, or said 

In thanks to that dear woman dead? 
Men triumph over women still, 

Men trample women’s rights at will, 
And men’s lust roves the world untamed, 


O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed! 
John Masefield., 


From “The Story of the Round-House,” i 
Used by permission of and special arrangement with 
The Macmillan Co. 


WANTED 


It is pleasant to have company as we journey. But there is 
a vast difference between going along with the crowd and 
impelling the crowd to go along with us. “Some people tell 
me,” declares Billy Sunday, “that I rub the fur the wrong 
way. My answer is, Let the cat turn round.” 


OD give us men! A time like this demands 
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready 
hands; 
Men whom the lust of office does not kill; 
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; 
Men who possess opinions and a will; 
Men who have honor,—men who will not lie; 
Men who can stand before a demagogue, 
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking! 
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog 
In public duty, and in private thinking; 
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, 
Their large professions and their little deeds,— 
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps, 
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps! 


Josiah Gilbert Holland, 


From “Complete Poetical Works,” 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 


201 — 


THE SOUL CAPTAINS 


_The man who grovels as he asks must be content with a 
pittance. 


HE Guardian of the Gate looked down and watched 

them coming on, 

A close-knit rank of new-born souls treading the star-lit 
dawn, 

Shoulder to shoulder and step by step—sturdy as shades 
might be— 

And the Guardian of the Gate, perplexed, wondered 
whom he should see. 


“What souls are these?” he asked at last, “who hold 
their heads erect: 

Who bend no knee, whose eyes look up,—are they without 
respect?” 

The Captain lifted a steady hand, saluted and thus replied: 

“We are the souls of the Men who Dared,—who lived 
with courage—and died! 


“We asked not why; we cared not why; we gave of our 
best in the fight; 

The bitter or sweet; the cruel or kind—each as he saw the 
Light: 

We did not wince when the whip-lash stung, but strove 
by the rules we knew, 

If you would have us on bended knee, none of us will 
go through.” 


The Guardian of the Gate, wide-eyed, nodded his haloed 
head. 

“This is the talk of the living,” he said, “and not the 
speech of the dead.” 

The Captain smiled. ‘We are dead, indeed—but habit is 
strong in the soul 

And the God we seek cares not to have men crawling to 
reach the Goal. 

202 


“We lived and loved; we wrought and laughed; we did 
what was given to do. 

Not for rewards, and not through fright, but each to his 
standard true: 

That the Master within grants peace and joy to humans 
made good through fear 

We won’t believe, and we can’t believe—else why are we 
summoned here ?” 


The Guardian opened the Gateway wide. “Enter!” was 
his command, 

“The depth and breadth of the Master’s love at last ye 
may understand!” 


The Light of the Endless Peace shone down as he opened 
the judgment roll 
And found their names. They had earned their rest— 
Captains of heart and soul! 
Everard Jack Appleton. 


Permission of the Author 
From “The Quiet Courage.” 
D. Appleton & Co. 


NOW IS THE TIME 


OW is the time; ah, friend, no longer wait 
To scatter loving smiles and words of cheer 
To those around whose lives are now so dear. 
They may not meet you in the coming year. 
Now is the time. 


Ah, friends! dear friends—if any such there be,— 
Keep not your loving thoughts away from me 
Till I am gone. 
I want them now to help me on the way, 
As lonely watchers want the light of day 
Ere it is morn. 
D. F. Hodges. 
203 


IO VICTIS 


True manhood lies in fighting bravely, not in receiving acclaim 
as a victor. 


I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the 
Battle of Life— 

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died over- 
whelmed in the strife; 

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the re- 
sounding acclaim 

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the 
chaplet of fame,— 

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the 
broken in heart, 

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and 
desperate part; 

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes 
burned in ashes away, 

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, 
who stood at the dying of day 

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, 
unheeded, alone, 

With Death sweeping down o’er their failure, and all but 
their faith overthrown. 


While the voice of the world shouts its chorus,—its pean 
for those who have won; 

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to 
the breeze and the sun 

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, with thousands 
of hurrying feet 

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on 
the field of defeat— 

In the shadow, with those who have fallen, and wounded, 
and dying, and there 

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted 
brows, breathe a prayer, . 

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, “They only 
the victory win, 


204 


Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished 
the demon that tempts us within ; | 

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize 
that the world holds on high; 

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight,— 
if need be, to die.” 


Speak, History! Who are Life’s victors? Unroll thy 
long annals, and say, 

Are they those whom the world called the victors—who 
won the success of a day? 

The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Ther- 
mopyle’s tryst, 

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? 
Pilate or Christ ? 

William Wetmore Story. 


TO-DAY 


HY fear to-morrow, timid heart? 
Why tread the future’s way? 
We only need to do our part, 
To-day, dear child, to-day. 


The past is written! Close the book 
On pages sad and gay; 

Within the future do not look, 
But live to-day—to-day. 


*Tis this one hour God has given; 
His Now we must obey; 

And it will make our earth his heaven 
To live to-day—to-day. 


Lydia Avery Coonley Ward. 


205 


WASHINGTON BY THE DELAWARE 


“When you get into a tight place,’ says Harriet Beecher 
Stowe, “and everything goes against you, till it seems as if you 
couldn't hold on a minute longer, never give up then, for that’s 
just the place and time that the tide’ll turn.” 


HE snow was red with patriot blood, 
The proud foe tracked the blood-red snow. 
The flying patriots crossed the flood 
A tattered, shattered band of woe. 
Forlorn each barefoot hero stood, 
With bare head bended low. 


“Let us cross back! Death waits us here: 
Recross or die!” the chieftain said. 

A famished soldier dropped a tear— 

A tear that froze as it was shed: 

For oh, his starving babes were dear— 
They had but this for bread! 


A captain spake: “It cannot be! 

These bleeding men, why, what could they? 
*T would be as snowflakes in the sea!” 

The worn chief did not heed or say. 

He set his firm lips silently, 

Then turned aside to pray. 


And as he kneeled and prayed to God, 
God’s finger spun the stars in space; 

He spread his banner blue and broad, 
He dashed the dead sun’s stripes in place, 
Till war walked heaven fire shod 

And lit the chieftain’s face: 


Till every soldier’s heart was stirred, 

Till every sword shook in its sheath— 
“Up! up! Face back. But not one word!” 
God’s flag above; the ice beneath— 
They crossed so still, they only heard 

The icebergs grind their teeth! 


206 


Ho! Hessians, hirelings at meat 

While praying patriots hunger so! 

Then, bang! Boom! Bang! Death and defeat! 
And blood? Ay, blood upon the snow! 

Yet not the blood of patriot feet, 

But heart’s blood of the foe! 


O ye who hunger and despair! 

O ye who perish for the sun, 

Look up and dare, for God is there; 

And man can do what man has done! 

Think, think of darkling Delaware! 

Think, think of Washington! 

Joaquin Muller. 

From “Complete Poetical Works,” 
Harr Wagner Publishing. Co. 


LIFE 


IFE is a seesaw that goes up and down, 
Goes up and down, goes up and down; 
First it’s all sunshine and then it’s all frown— 
And still it goes up and down. 


Life like a pendulum swings to and fro, 
Swings to and fro, swings to and fro; 

Laughter and teardrops, they come and they go— 
And still it swings to and fro. 


Life is a journey o’er valley and hill, 
Valley and hill, valley and hill; 

If all were level we’d soon have our fill— 
So up and on with a will! 


Joseph Morris. 
207 


GUNGA DIN 


In this poem a British soldier who has served in India is 
back in England, perhaps near the great military camp at Alder- 
shot. He is telling his new comrades of his Indian experiences. 
An acquaintance with certain words he uses will assist us in 
understanding the poem. Bhisti means “water carrier,’ Panee 
lao means “bring water quickly,” Harry By is a rough ‘equivalent 
for the Hindu “O brother!” marrow you means “hit you,” 
ana means “leather water-bag,’ and a doolt is a kind of 
itter. 


OU may talk o’ gin an’ beer 
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere, 
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it; 
But if it comes to slaughter 
You will do your work on water, 
An’ you'll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it. 
Now in Injia’s sunny clime, 
Where I used to spend my time 
A-servin’ of "Er Majesty the Queen, 
Of all them black-faced crew 
The finest man J knew 
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. 
He was “Din! Din! Din! 
You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din! 
Hi! slippey hitherao! 
Water! get it! Panee lao! 
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!” 


The uniform ’e wore 

Was nothin’ much before, 

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind, 

For a twisty piece o’ rag 

An’ a goatskin water-bag 

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find. 

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay 

In a sidin’ through the day, 

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eye-brows 
crawl, 

We shouted “Harry By!” 

Till our throats were bricky-dry, 


208 


Then we wopped ’im cause ’e couldn’t serve us all. 
It was “Din! Din! Din! 
You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been ? 
You put some juldee in it 
Or I'll marrow you this minute, 
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!” 


’E would dot an’ carry one 
Till the longest day was done; 
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear. 
If we charged or broke or cut, 
You could bet your bloomin’ nut, 
’"E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear. 
With ’is mussick on ’is back, 
"E would skip with our attack, 
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire,” 
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide 
"E was white, clear white, inside 
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire! 
It was “Din! Din! Din!’ 
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the 
green. 
When the cartridges ran out, 
You could ’ear the front-files shout, 
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!” 


I sha’n’t forgit the night 
When I dropped be’ind the fight 
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been. 
I was chokin’ mad with thirst, 
An’ the man that spied me first 
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din. 
"E lifted up my ’ead, 
An’ ’e plugged me where I bled, 
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water—green: 
It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk, 
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk, 
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. 
It was “Din! Din! Din! 
’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen; 


209 


*E’s chawin’ up the ground, 
An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around: 
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!” 


"E carried me away 
To where a dooli lay, 
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean. 
"E put me safe inside, 
An’ just before ’e died: 
“T ’ope you like your drink, 
So [Il meet ’im later on 
At the place where ’e is gone— 
Where it’s always double drill an’ no canteen; 
"Ell be squattin’ on the coals, 
Givin’ drink to pore damned souls, 
An’ Ill git a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! 
Yes, Din! Din! Din! 
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! 
Though I’ve belted you an’ flayed you, 
By the livin’ Gawd that made you, 
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din! 


Rudyard Kipling. 


39 


sez Gunga Din. 


COURAGE 
Valor without discretion often becomes foolhardiness. 


VALIANT man 

Ought not to undergo or tempt a danger, 
But worthily, and by selected ways, 

He undertakes by reason, not by chance. 


His valor is the salt t’ his other virtues, 


They’re all unseason’d without it. 
Ben Jonson. 
210 


BEST O’ FELLERS 


“In uplifting,’ says George Ade, “get underneath.’ Some 
men so genuinely assume their natural place is underneath that 
they themselves do not know how much of the load they are 
carrying. 


EST o’ fellers fur an’ wide, 
Never knowed it till he died. 

Said all roun’ the neighborhood 
He was nachully “no good,” 
Till one day he closed his eyes 
To the worl’ an’ to the skies. 
Last words that we heard him say: 
“T wuz allus in the way: 
Jest ain’t wuth a tear or sigh: 
Tell ’em all good-by—good-by 


1» 


Best o’ fellers, fur an’ wide, 
Never knowed it till he died. 

Till poor souls aroun’ him pressed 
An’ laid roses on his breast; 

Till we heard beside him moan 
Folks he’d helped all unbeknown ; 
Little childern roun’ the place 
Cryin’—kissin’ his white face! 
Best o’ fellers, fur an’ wide. 

Never knowed it till he died. 


Best o’ fellers! . . . That’s the way 

We're a-doin’ day by day,— 

Findin’ thorns in gardens sweet 

When the flowers air at our feet! 

Allus stumblin’ in the night 

When the mornin’s jest in sight! 

Holdin’ of our love until 

Hearts it might have helped air still. 

Best o’ fellers, fur an’ wide. 

Never knowed it till he died. 
Frank L. Stanton. 


Printed in and permission from 
“The Atlanta Constitution.” 


2I1 


BUT THEN 


The boy who yells loudest, “Let me at him. Let me at him!” 
is not the boy who fights hardest when he is turned loose. 


yo OSWALD MuGUFFIN he wanted to die 
"Nd bring his career to an end; 
Of course, well—he didn’t say nothin’ to me— 
But that’s what he told every friend. 
So one afternoon he went down to the pier, 
’Nd folks saw him actin’ most terribly queer ; 
He prayed ’nd he sung, put his hand up to cough 
An’ every one thought he was a-goin’ to jump off— 
But he didn’t. 
He may jump tomorrer 
Mornin’ at ten— 
Said he was goin’ to 
Try it again— 
But then. 


John Oswald he said he was tired of the earth— 
Of its turmoil and struggle and strife— 
’Nd he made up his mind a long, long time ago 
He was just bound t’ take his own life; 
’Nd the very next time ’at he started to shave, 
Determined to die, he wus goin’ t’ be brave; 
So he stood up ’nd flourished the knife in despair 
"Nd every one thought ’at he’d kill himself there— 
But he didn’t. 
He says ’at tomorrer 
Mornin’ at ten 
He has a notion to 
Try it again— 
But then. 


He went and bought arsenic, bought paris green, 
’Nd cobalt ’nd all kinds of stuff 

"Nd he took great delight in leaving it ’round— 
Of course that was done for a bluff— 


212 


Then he rigged up his room with a horrible thing, 
That would blow his head off by pullin’ a string. 
Folks heard the explosion—rushed up—on his bed 
John Oswald was lyin’. They whispered, “He’s dead.” 

But he wasn’t. 

He riz up ’nd said: 

Couldn’t say when 

He’d fully decide to 

Try it again— 

But then. 

Ben King. 
From “Ben King’s Verse 


Copyright, 1894, by een, Bell King. 
Forbes & Co. 


TREES 


Kilmer was another of the poet-victims of the World War. 
This poem is a favorite with those who find in nature abiding 
strength and serene encouragement. 


THINK that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast ; 


A tree that looks at God all day, 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 


A tree that may in Summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 


Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 


Poems are made by fools like me, 
But only God can make a tree. 
Joyce Kilmer. 
From ‘‘Poems, Essays and Letters,” 


Copyright, 1914, 1917, 191 
George H. Doran Co. ; 


213 


ADMIRALS ALL 


Most of the incidents here recorded are definitely historic. 
All of them typify the spirit of the great English naval com- 
manders. 


FFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, 
Here’s to the bold and free! 
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, 
Hail to the Kings of the Sea! 
Admirals all, for England’s sake, 
Honor be yours and fame! 
And honor, as long as waves shall break, 
To Nelson’s peerless name! 


Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay 
With the galleons fair in sight; 

Howard at last must give him his way, 
And the word was passed to fight. 

Never was schoolboy gayer than he, 
Since holidays first began: 

He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, 
And under the guns he ran. 


Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, 
Their cities he put to sack; 
He singed his Catholic Majesty’s beard, 
And harried his ships to wrack. 
He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls 
When the great Armada came; 
But he said, “They must wait their turns, good 
souls,” 
And he stooped, and finished the game. 


Fifteen sails were the Dutchmen bold, 
Duncan he had but two: 

But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, 
And his colors aloft he flew. 


214 


“T’ve taken the depth to a fathom,” he cried, 
“And I'll sink with a right good will: 
For I know when we’re all of us under the tide, 

My flag will be fluttering still.” 


Splinters were flying above, below, 
When Nelson sailed the Sound: 

“Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,” 
Said he, “for a thousand pound!” 

The Admiral’s signal bade him fly, 
But he wickedly wagged his head, 

He clapped his glass to his sightless eye 
And “I’m damned if I see it,” he said. 


Admirals all, they said their say 
(The echoes are ringing still), 
Admirals all, they went their way 
To the haven under the hill. 
But they left us a kingdom none can take, 
The realm of the circling sea, 
To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake 
And the Rodneys yet to be. 


Sir Henry Newbolt. 


From “Admirals All and Other Poems,” 
The John Lane Co. 


THE BRAVE 


HE brave do never shun the light; 
Just are their thoughts, and open are their 
tempers ; 
Freely without disguise they love or hate; 
Still are they found in the fair face of day, 
And heav’n and men are judges of their actions. 


Nicholas Rowe. 


215 


“DON’T CARE” AND “NEVER MIND” 
The “don’t care” attitude is the passive ally of suffering and 


evil. The “never mind” attitude is the sunny champion of the 
good which yet may be wrought. 


te ON’T CARE?” is no friend of mine. 
I “don’t care” for him. 
When he comes it is a sign 
Sense is growing dim. 
He is not the thing of pride 
Some folks seem to think. 
Folly is his constant guide, 
Bread and meat and drink. 


Not to care when things go wrong, 
Not to care when ill 
Rises up to check your song, 
And your heart to chill— 
That were foolishness indeed 
Of an arrant sort. 
Nothing is too slight to heed 
On the way to port. 


But the sunny “Never Mind,” 
He’s a different wight. 
Helps us when the day’s inclined 
Not to treat us right; 
Softens every bitter blast, 
Warms us when we’re cold; 
When the sky is overcast, 
Keeps us blithe and bold. 


Bids all sorrow go its way. 
Helps us stay our tears, 
And when life seems drear and gray, 
Quiets all our fears. 
When it comes to share and share, 
I shall be resigned 
If some other gets “Don’t Care’— 
T’ll take “Never Mind!” 
John Kendrick Bangs. 


From “Songs of Cheer.” 
Permission of the Author’s Estate. 


216 


RELIANCE 


Success often comes—and encouragement lies in this fact— 
from the source or in the manner least expected. An old fable 
has it that a dying man told his lazy sons that gold was buried 
in the vineyard. They dug everywhere, and by stirring the 
soil about the roots of the vines produced an unprecedented 


harvest of grapes. 


OT to the swift, the race: 
Not to the strong, the fight: 
Not to the righteous, perfect grace: 
Not to the wise, the light. 


But often faltering feet 
Come surest to the goal; 

And they who walk in darkness meet 
The sunrise of the soul. 


A thousand times by night 
The Syrian hosts have died; 

A thousand times the vanquished right 
Hath risen, glorified. 


The truth the wise men sought 
Was spoken by a child; 

The alabaster box was brought 
In trembling hands defiled. 


Not from my torch, the gleam, 
But from the stars above: 

Not from my heart, life’s crystal stream, 
But from the depths of Love. 


Henry van Dyke. 


From ‘‘Poems of Henry van Dyke,”’ 
Copyright, 1911, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


217 


ON THINKING GLAD 


An owl is blinded by the light. To him light is darkness. 
Should we be spiritual owls? 


EVER mind a change of scene— 
Try a change of thinking. 
What if things seem sordid, mean, 
What’s the use of blinking? 
Life’s not always storm and cloud, 
Somewhere stars are shining. 
Try to think your joys out loud, 
Silence all repining. 


By degrees, by thinking light, 
Thinking glad and sweetly, 

You'll escape the stress of night, 
Worry gone completely. 

Get the habit looking for 
Sunbeams pirouetting, 

Tapping gaily at your door— 
Surest cure for fretting. 


Needn’t fool yourself at all, 
For there’s no denying 
F’en above a prison wall 
Song-birds are aflying. 
Wherefore hearken to the song, 
Never mind the prison, 
And you'll find your soul ere long 
Unto freedom risen, 
John Kendrick Bangs. 


From “Songs of Cheer.” 
Permission of the Author’s Estate. 


IMAGINARY ILLS 


UT human bodies are sic fools, 

For a’ their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themsels to vex them. 


Robert Burns. 
218 


DROP YOUR BUCKET WHERE YOU ARE 


Some one asked Thoreau where he managed to find so many 
arrowheads. By way of reply he simply stooped and picked 
one up. 

oT H, ship ahoy!” rang out the cry, 
“Oh, give us water or we die!” 
A voice came o’er the waters far, 
“Just drop your bucket where you are.” 
And then they dipped and drank their fill 
Of water fresh from mead and hill; 
And then they knew they sailed upon 
The broad mouth of the Amazon. 


O’er tossing wastes we sail and cry 
“Oh, give us water or we die!’ 

On high, relentless waves we roll 
Through arid climates for the soul; 
’Neath pitiless skies we pant for breath 
Smit with the thirst that drags to death, 
And fail, while faint for fountains far, 
To drop our buckets where we are. 


Oh, ship ahoy! you're sailing on 

The broad mouth of the Amazon, 
Whose mighty current flows and sings 
Of mountain streams and inland springs, 
Of night-kissed morning’s dewy balm, 
Of heaven-dropt evening’s twilight calm, 
Of nature’s peace in earth or star— 
Just drop your bucket where you are. 


Seek not for fresher founts afar, 

Just drop your bucket where you are; 
And while the ship right onward leaps 
Uplift it from exhaustless deeps ; 

Parch not your life with dry despair, 
The stream of hope flows everywhere. 
So, under every sky and star, 

Just drop your bucket where you are. 

Sam Walter Foss. 


{»? 


From “Back Country Poems,” 
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


219 


THE CONQUEROR 


During the World War a transport carrying Australian 
soldiers was torpedoed by a submarine. No help was at hand, 
and all on board knew that the chance of escape was slight. 
In fact few of them did escape. But as the ship listed and 
settled, one of the soldiers raised a shout, “Are we down- 
hearted?” The reply was instant and thunderous: “No!” 


ERE I shall wait 
To meet the rush of some relentless fate, 
Content to know that I will be supreme 
Against the bitter sword that life may wave; 
Where I will hold to one eternal dream 
Of valor riding roughshod to the grave. 


Here I shall stand 

Against misfortune, with its crushing hand, 
And, though it crowd me to the lowest pit 
Where I shall see no starlight in the sky, 
Yet I shall struggle upward, bit by bit, 
Until I see the white dawn drifting by. 


For any soul 

The fight is more important than the goal. 
Strife, toil and struggle, with their share of pain, 
Are winning trainers down the long, hard beat, 
And fate, in all its fury, sweeps in vain 

Against the soul that marches through defeat. 


The game means more 

Than any flare of glory from the score; 

The dawn is brighter that we see at last 
Through shadows blacker than the stain of sin; 
And when we know the final fight is past, 

What is there left worth while for me to win? 


Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author. ys 
From “The Sportlight.” 


220 


KEEP A-TRYING 


Most of us mean well. But when with all our struggling we 
seem to get nowhere, our faith and perseverance are sorely 
tried. In such moments we should fasten our thoughts upon 
the fact that persistent effort is the price of success. We need, 
not inspiration, but sober encouragement. As George Eliot 
says, “Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for the 
rarely found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart 
than a grove of nightingales.” 


AY “T will!” and then stick to it— 
That’s the only way to do it. 
Don’t build up awhile and then 
Tear the whole thing down again. 
Fix the goal you wish to gain, 
Then go at it heart and brain, 
And, though clouds shut out the blue, 
Do not dim your purpose true 
With your sighing. 
Stand erect, and, like a man, 
Know “They can who think they can.” 
Keep a-trying. 


Had Columbus, half seas o’er, 
Turned back to his native shore, 
Men would not, to-day, proclaim 
Round the world his deathless name. 
So must we sail on with him 
Past horizons far and dim, 
Till at last we own the prize 
That belongs to him who tries 
With faith undying; 
Own the prize that all may win 
Who, with hope, through thick and thin 
Keep a-trying. 


Nixon Waterman. 


From “In Merry Mood,”’ 
Ferbes & Co. 


221 


PLAYING OFF BASE 


We cannot expect all the breaks of the game to be in our 
favor. But unless we show courage and are willing to risk 
something, we cannot take advantage of the breaks even when 
they do come our way. 


HE first time Loudermilk reached first base 
He danced off, and presently grew bolder. 

When the pitcher snapped the ball, the first baseman gave 
a haul 

And touched poor Loudy on the shoulder. 

*Mid a storm of hoots and taunts Loud’s feelings tumbled 
down 

From the mountain peaks of joy to lowly dingle, 

And he muttered, rather blue, to the manager, “I knew 

I couldn’t score from first on a single.” 


The second time Loudermilk reached first base 

He hugged the bag in terror of the razzle. 

When the batter cracked out one, Loudy’s chance to make 
a run 

Was exactly one ten-thousandth of a frazzle. 

This time there were no boos, nor did mad applause ring 
out 

And Loud’s nerves were not with triumph all a-tingle. 

“*Tis plain,” growled he, “the case ‘less a guy’s on 
second base, 

He'll never gallop home on a single.” 


The third time Loudermilk reached first base 
He took a chance again and captured second. 
When the hit that followed came, his lone tally won the 
game— 
He was where he answered fortune when she beckoned. 
Then the fans riz up and roared. Now it may be their 
hurrahs 
Were solely for the chap who got the bingle; 
But the boy who took the risk and to old home-base could 
frisk 
Came from second, not from first, on the single. 
St. Clair Adams. 


222 


FORWARD 


You will never see driftwood floating upstream. 


i Ba me stand still upon the height of life; 
Much has been won, though much there is to 
win. 
I am a little weary of the strife; 
Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin 
To cool my hot brow, ease the travel pain, 
And then address me to the road again. 


Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb; 
Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest. 

Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time; 
Before me rises the steep mountain crest. 

Let me stand still; the journey is half done, 

And when less weary I will travel on. 


There is no standing still! Even as I pause, 
The steep path shifts and I slip back apace. 
Movement was safety; by the journey-laws 
No help is given, no safe abiding-place, 
No idling in the pathway hard and slow: 
I must go forward, or must backward go! 


I will go up then, though the limbs may tire, 

And though the path be doubtful and unseen ; 
Better with the last effort to expire 

Than lose the toil and struggle that have hee 
And have the morning strength, the upward strain, 
The distance conquered, in the end made vain. 


Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet, 

And we would all lie down if so we might; 
And few would struggle on with bleeding feet, 

And few would ever gain the higher height, 
Except for the stern law which bids us know 
We must go forward or must backward go. 

Sarah Chauncey Woolsey. 
(“Susan Coolidge’’ ) 


From “‘A Few More Verses,”’ 
Little, Brown & Co. 


223 


WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY 


It was Leap Year, and the woman asked: “Will you marry 
me? Have you any objections?’ The man reflected that if 
he said either yes or no, he would find himself engaged. He 
therefore kept silent. Whereupon the woman said promptly: 
“Silence gives consent.” 


T was a noble Roman, 
In Rome’s imperial day, 
Who heard a coward croaker, 
Before the Castle, say : 
“They’re safe in such a fortress; 
There is no way to shake it!” 
“On—on!’’ exclaimed the hero, 
“I'll find a way, or make i!’ 


Is Fame your aspiration? 
Her path is steep and high; 
In vain he seeks her temple, 
Content to gaze and sigh: 
The shining throne is waiting, 
But he alone can take it 
Who says, with Roman firmness, 
“Tl find a way, or make it!’ 


Is Learning your ambition? 
There is no royal road; 
Alike the peer and peasant 
Must climb to her abode: 
Who feels the thirst of knowledge, 
In Helicon may slake it, 
If he has still the Roman will 
“Till find a way, or make it!’ 


Are Riches worth the getting? 
They must be bravely sought; 

With wishing and with fretting 
The boon cannot be bought: 


224 


To all the prize is open, 
But only he can take it 
0 says, with Roman courage, 
“Tl find a way, or make it!” 


In Love’s impassioned warfare 
The tale has ever been, 

That victory crowns the valiant,— 
The brave are they who win: 

Though strong is Beauty’s castle, 
A lover still may take it, 

Who says, with Roman courage, 
“Tl find a way, or make it!” 


John Godfrey Saxe. 


From “Poetical Works,” 
Houghton Mifflin Co. 


A CHOICE 


F you must sit and sigh, 
And have the blues, 

Why don’t you try 

To realize 
That there are sighs and sighs, 

And blues and blues, 

From which to choose? 
There’s Heavenly blues, and blues of tranquil seas, 
Both pleasant—if you have them, pray have these; 
And when you sigh, be like the turtle-dove, 
Who knows not grief, and merely sighs for love. 


John Kendrick Bangs. 


From ‘‘Songs of Cheer 
Permission of the pene Estate. 


225 


A PRAYER :FOR COURAGE 


In 1889 our immigration authorities at Ellis Island sent to 
the “detention pen” a deformed young German political refugee 
whose face was badly swollen from some illness contracted 
aboard ship. Such poor material for citizenship did he seem 
that he barely obtained admission to this country. Yet within 
him was that which would not falter and which speedily made 
him one of the greatest inventors of our time. What a blunder 
it would have been to pronounce Charles P. Steinmetz unworthy 
of American citizenship! 


IVE me courage, Lord, to sail 
My boat out from the shore. 
I’d rather know the ocean’s gale 
And hear the tempest’s roar 
Than anchor safely in some bay 
Because fear conquered me. 
Let craft less daring, inland stay— 
Be mine the pathless sea. 
What though my boat at last go down, 
I know my courage shall not drown. 


Oh grant me aspiration, Lord, 
To seek the mountain’s height ; 
The lowlands easy joy afford, 
But there ’tis soonest night. 
My eyes shall watch the sun-lit peak 
As over rock and stone 
I fall with ebbing strength, yet seek 
The upward ways alone. 
Though not far from the base I stop 
My soul shall climb on to the top. 


Give me a valiant spirit, Lord, 

That bows not to defeat; 
Though mine be but a broken sword 
Face-forward I would meet 
The onrush of my armored foes, 
Nor beg on bended knee 


226 


That they withhold the fatal blows 
Which they intend for me. 
The victory’s mine if my last breath 
Dare bid defiance still to death. 
Joseph Morris. 


WATCH YOURSELF GO BY 


Few men are remorselessly honest in their estimate of them- 
selves. And the man who judges himself too leniently does 
not judge others leniently enough. 


UST stand aside and watch yourself go by; 
Think of yourself as “he,” instead of “I.” 

Note, closely as in other men you note, 
The bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat. 
Pick flaws, find fault; forget the man is you, 
And strive to make your estimate ring true. 
Confront yourself and look you in the eye— 
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by. 


Interpret all your motives just as though 

You looked on one whose aims you did not know. 
Let undisguised contempt surge through you when 
You see you shirk, O commonest of men! 

Despise your cowardice; condemn whate’er 

You note of falseness in you anywhere. 

Defend not one defect that shames your eye— 

Just stand aside and watch yourself go by. 


And then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe— 

To sins that with sweet charity you’d clothe— 

Back to your self-walled tenement you’ll go 

With tolerance for all who dwell below. 

The faults of others then will dwarf and shrink, 

Love’s chain grow stronger by one mighty link— 

When you, with “he” as substitute for “I,” 

Have stood aside and watched yourself go by. 
Strickland Gullilan. 


From “Including Finnigan,” 
Forbes & Co. 


227 


THE LUNGER 


Some one has said that real thrift consists in keeping a fly in 
one’s bedroom instead of having an alarm clock. Thrift in 
happiness consists in turning affliction into song. 


ACK would laugh an’ joke all day; 
Never saw a lad so gay; 
Singin’ like a medder lark, 
Loaded to the Plimsoll mark 
With God’s sunshine was that boy; 
Had a strangle-holt on Joy. 
Held his head ’way up in air, 
Left no callin’ cards on Care; 
Breezy, buoyant, brave and true; 
Sent his sunshine out to you; 
Cheerfulest when clouds was black— 
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack! 


Sittin’ in my shack alone 
I could hear him in his own, 
Singin’ far into the night, 
Till it didn’t seem just right 
One man should corral the fun, 
Live his life so in the sun; 
Didn’t seem quite natural 
Not to have a grouch at all; 
Not a trouble, not a lack— 
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack! 


He was plumbful of good cheer 

Till he struck that low-down year ; 

Got so thin, so little to him, 

You could most see day-light through him. 
Never was his eye so bright, 

Never was his cheek so white. 

Seemed as if somethin’ was wrong, 

Sort o’ quaver in his song. 

Same old smile, same hearty voice: 
“Bless you, boys! let’s all rejoice!” 


228 


But old Doctor shook his head: 

“Half a lung,” was all he said. 

Yet that half was surely right, 

For I heard him every night, 

Singin’, singin’ in his shack— 
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack! 


Then one day a letter came 

Endin’ with a female name; 

Seemed to get him in the neck, 

Sort o’ pile-driver effect ; 

Paled his lip and plucked his breath, 

Left him starin’ still as death. 

Somethin’ had gone awful wrong, 

Yet that night he sang his song. 

Oh, but it was good to hear! 

For there clutched my heart a fear, 

So that I quaked listenin’ 

Every night to hear him sing. 

But each day he laughed with me, 

An’ his smile was full of glee. 

Nothin’ seemed to set him back— 
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack! 


Then one night the singin’ stopped ... 
Seemed as if my heart just flopped; 
For I’d learned to love the boy 
With his gilt-edged line of joy, 
With his glorious gift of bluff, 
With his splendid fightin’ stuff. 
Sing on, lad, and play the game! 

O dear God! ... no singin’ came, 
But there surged to me instead— 
Silence, silence, deep and dread ; 
Till I shuddered, tried to pray, 
Said: ‘“He’s maybe gone away.” 


Oh, yes, he had gone away, 
Gone forever and a day. 

But he’d left behind him there, 
In his cabin, pinched and bare, 


229 


His poor body, skin and bone, 
His sharp face, cold as a stone. 
An’ his stiffened fingers pressed 
Somethin’ bright upon his breast: 
Locket with a silken curl, 

Poor, sweet portrait of a girl. 
Yet I reckon at the last 

How defiant-like he passed ; 

For there sat upon his lips 

Smile that death could not eclipse; 
An’ within his eyes lived still 
Joy that dyin’ could not kill. 


An’ now when the nights are long, 

How I miss his cheery song! 

How I sigh an’ wish him back! 
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack! 


Robert W. Service. 


From “Rhymes of a Rolling Stone,” 
Copyright, 1912, 
Dodd, Mead and Company. 


BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH 


This poem is based upon a line by Colonel John Trotwood 
Moore: “Only the gamefish swims upstream.’ The weakling 
and the slacker among fishes complain that fate has circum- 
scribed their lives. They venture nothing hard or daring, and 
consequently win none of the glories of fish-hood. The same 
is be of men who are unwilling to make an effort or incur a 
risk, 


“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” 


HERE the puddle is shallow, the weakfish stay 
To drift along with the current’s flow; 
To take the tide as it moves each day 
With the idle ripples that come and go; 
With a shrinking fear of the gales that blow 
By distant coasts where the Great Ports gleam; 


230 


Where the far heights call through the silver glow, 
“Only the gamefish swims upstream.” 


Where the shore is waiting, the minnows play, 
Borne by the current’s undertow ; 
Drifting, fluttering on their way, 
Bound by a fate that has willed it so; 
In the tree-flung shadows they never know 
How far they have come from the old, brave 
dream ; 
Where the wild gales call from the peaks of snow, 
“Only the gamefish swims upstream.” 


Where the tide rolls down in a flash of spray 
And strikes with the might of a bitter foe, 
The shrimp and the sponge are held at bay 
Where the dusk winds call the sun sinks low; 
They call it Fate in their endless woe 
As they shrink in fear when the wild hawks scream 
From the crags and crests where the great thorns grow, 
“Only the gamefish swims upstream.” 


Held with the current the Fates bestow, 
The driftwood moves to a sluggish theme, 
Nor heeds the call which the Far Isles throw, 
“Only the gamefish swims upstream.” 


Grantland Rice. 


Permission of the Author. 
From ‘The Sportlight.” 


HAPPINESS 


HINK ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet and dry, 
Wi’ never-ceasing toil; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 
As hardly worth their while? 
Robert Burns. 


231 


A SONG 


If the scene before you is ghastly or sordid, close your eyes 
and conjure up scenes of loveliness. If the sounds about you 
are hideous, seal your ears and catch harmonious strains of 
the spirit. “Heard melodies,” Keats tells us, “are sweet, but 
those unheard are sweeter.” 


HERE is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
There is ever a something sings alway ; 
There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear, 
And the song of the thrush when the skies are 
oray. 
The sunshine showers across the grain, 
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; 
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, 
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. 


There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
Be the skies above or dark or fair; 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear— 
There is ever a song somewhere! 


There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
In the midnight black or the midday blue; 
The robin pipes when the sun is here, 
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. 
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, 
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere; 
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. 


There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
_ Be the skies above or dark or fair; 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
There is ever a song somewhere! 
James Whitcomb Riley. 

From the Biographical Edition 
Of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, 
Copyright, 1913. 


Used by special permission of the publishers, . 
The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 


232 


LET’S BE BRAVE 


We should not set too much store by our valor until it has 
weathered a genuine ordeal. A soldier once boasted in Julius 
Czsar’s presence about the wounds he had received in the face. 
Cesar knew the man was a coward at heart, and bade him be 
careful how he looked back when he ran. 


ET’S be brave when the laughter dies 

And the tears come into our troubled eyes, 
Let’s cling to the faith and the old belief 
When the skies grow gray with the clouds of grief, 
Let’s bear the sorrow and hurt and pain 
And wait till the laughter comes again. 


Let’s be brave when the trials come 

And our hearts are sad and our lips are dumb, 
Let’s strengthen ourselves in the times of test 
By whispering softly that God knows best ; 
Let us still believe, though we cannot know, 
We shall learn sometime it is better so. 


Let’s be brave when the joy departs, 

Till peace shall come to our troubled hearts, 
For the tears must fall and the rain come down 
And each brow be pressed to the thorny crown; 
Yet after the dark shall the sun arise, 

So let’s be brave when the laughter dies. 


Edgar A. Guest. 


From ‘“‘The Passing Throng,” 
The Reilly & Lee Co. 


233 





INDEX BY AUTHORS 


a 


Apams, St. Crarr. Born in Arkansas, 1883. University educa- 
cation; European travel; has resided at one time or another 
in nearly all sections of America. Miscellaneous literary and 
editorial work. Allies, 161; A Matter of Direction, 195; 
But, 78; Compulsion, 46; Playing Off Base, 222; The Dif- 
a lide 74; The Other Side of It, 98; There Aiwt No Need 

0, 120. 

AppIsonN, JosepH. Born at Milston, Wilts, Eng., May 1, 1672; 
died at Holland House, London, June 17, 1719. Educated 
at the Charterhouse and at Queen’s College, Oxford. Took 
M.A. degree in 1693, and held a fellowship from 1608 until 
1711. Traveled on Continent, 1699-1703; was under-secretary 
of state 1706-08; secretary to the lord lieutenant of Ireland 
1709-10; secretary for Ireland 1715; a commissioner for 
trade and the colonies, 1716; and secretary of state from 
April, 1717, to March, 1718. In 1716 he married the Countess 
of Warwick. He was associated with Richard Steele in the 
Tatler, and the Spectator. He contributed also to the 
Guardian. Of his other works his tragedy “Cato” is best 
known. Hidden Strength, 137; The Soul, 117. 

Anonymous. A Four Leaf Clover, 174; Build a Little Fence, 
74; God’s Will for You and Me, 79; If You Have a Friend, 
40; In a Friendly Sort o° Way, 155; Influence, 45; Keep a 
Stiff Upper Lip, 142; Press Onward, 120; Sand, 192; Some- 
body, 49; The Man Who Thinks He Can, 1; To-Day, 102; 
True Heroism, 178. 

APPLETON, EVERARD JACK. Born at Charleston, W. Va., Mar. 
24, 1872. Very little schooling, but had advantages of home 
literary influences and a good library; at seventeen went 
into newspaper work in his home town; later went to Cin- 
cinnati, and worked on the daily Tribune, then on the Com- 
mercial Gazette; later connected with the Cincinnati Times- 
Star. For five years he wrote daily column of verse and 
humor; besides his newspaper work, he has written over 
one hundred and fifty stories, hundreds of poems, many 
songs, and innumerable jokes, jingles, cheer-up wall cards, 
and the like. Author of two books of poetry, “The Quiet 
Courage” and “With the Colors.” With such intense work 
his health broke down, and for a number of years he has 
been a chronic invalid, but his cheer and his faith are as 
bright as ever. The Legacy, 2; The Soul Captains, 202; 
The Two, 126. 

ArNoLpD, MatrHew. Born at Laleham, Middlesex, Eng., Dec. 
24, 1822; died at Liverpool, Apr. 15, 1888. Educated at Win- 


235 


chester, Rugby, and Oxford. Became Lord Lansdowne’s 
secretary 1847; became inspector of schools 1851; appointed 
Professor of Poetry at Oxford 1857; continental tours to 
inspect foreign educational systems 1859 and 1865; assigned 
a pension of £250 by Gladstone 1883; lecture trips to America 
1883 and 1886; retired as inspector of schools 1886. Among 
his works are “Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems,” 
“Essays in Criticism” (first and second series), “Culture and 
Anarchy,” “Literature and Dogma,” “Discourses in Amer- 
ica,” and “On the Study of Celtic Literature.” The Last 
W ord, 63; Revolutions, 145. 

ATHERSTONE, Epwin. Born at Nottingham, Eng., Apr. 17, 1788; 
died at Bath, Jan. 29, 1872. A minor English poet and prose- 
writer. The Last Days of Herculaneum, 64. 


B 


Bascock, Martste Davenport. Born at Syracuse, N. Y., Aug. 
3, 1858; died at Naples, Italy, May 18, 1901. Was graduated 
from Syracuse University in 1879 and from the Auburn (N. 
Y.) Theological Seminary in 1882. Served in various Presby- 
terian pastorates, coming to the Brick Presbyterian Church, 
New York City, in 1899. Be Strong, 3. 

BAILLIE, JOANNA. Born at Bothwell, Lanarkshire, Scotland, Sept. 
II, 1762; died at Hampstead, Eng., Feb. 23, 1851. A well- 
known poet and dramatist of her day. The Brave Man, 
he 

Bancs, Joun Kenprick. Born at Yonkers, N. Y., May 27, 1862; 
died Jan. 21, 1922. Received Ph.B. degree from Columbia 
1883; associate editor of Life 1884-8; has since served in 
various editorial capacities on Harper’s Magazine, Harper's 
Weekly, and the Metropolitan Magazine. Among his books 
are “The Idiot,” “A House Boat on the Styx,” “The Bicyclers, 
and Other Farces,’ “Songs of Cheer,” “Line o Cheer for 
Each Day o’ the Year,” “The Foothills of Parnassus,’ “A 
Quest for Song,” and “The Cheery Way.” A Choice, 225; 
Ambition, 119; “Don’t Care” and “Never Mind,” 216; May It 
Be Mine, 191; On File, 62; On Thinking Glad, 218. 

Barton, BerNarD. Born at Carlisle, Eng., Jan. 31, 1784; died at 
Woodbridge, Feb. 19, 1849. Often called “The Quaker Poet.” 
His claim to remembrance rests upon his friendship with 
Charles Lamb rather than upon his writings. Bruce and the 
Spider, 100. 

Benét, Witt1amM Rose. Born at Fort Hamilton, New York 
Harbor, Feb. 2, 1886. Graduated from Albany (N. Y.) 
Academy 1904; Ph.B. from Sheffield Scientinc School of 
Yale University 1907. Reader for Century Magazine 1907-11; 
assistant editor of the same 1911-14. 2d Lieutenant U. S. 
Air Service 1914-18. Assistant editor of the Nation’s Bust- 


236 4 


ness 1919-20. Associate editor of Literary Review of the 
New York Evening Post, March, 1920- . His books are 
“Merchants from Cathay,” “The Falconer of God,” “The 
Great White Wall,’ “The Burglar of the Zodiac,” “Moons 
of Grandeur,” and “First Person Singular.” His Worst 
Enemy, 1306. 

Botton, SARAH Kwnow es. Born in 1841; died in 1916. An 
American author among whose books are “Famous American 
Authors,” “Lives of Girls Who Became Famous,” and “Lives 
of Poor Boys Who Became Famous.” Conquering Fate, 181; 
Paddle Your Own Canoe, 8o. 

Bracken, THomAsS. Born in Ireland, 1843; died in New Zealand, 
Feb. 16, 1898. He settled in New Zealand in 1869, and en- 
gaged as storekeeper, miner, and journalist. He wrote a 
number of books of verse. Not Understood, 188. 

Bracey, Berton. Born at Madison, Wis., Jan. 29, 1882. Gradu- 
ated from the University of Wisconsin 1905; reporter on the 
Butte, Mont., Inter Mountain 1905-6; later with the Butte 
Evening News and the Billings, Mont., Gazette; with the 
New York Evening Mail 1900; associate editor of Puck 
1910; free lance writer since I910; special correspondent in 
Northern Europe 1915-16; in France, England, and Ger- 
many 1918-19. Among his books are “Sonnets of a Fresh- 
man,” “Songs of a Workaday World,’ “Things as They 
Are,” “A Banjo at Armageddon,” “In Camp and Trench,” 
“Buddy Ballads,” and “The Sheriff of Silver Bow.” 4 
Prayer, 27; The Endless Battle, 93; The Pioneers, 118; The 
Thinker, 10; The Whistler, 58. 

Browninc, Ropert. Born at Camberwell, Eng., May 7, 1812; 
died at Venice, Italy, Dec. 12, 1889. Educated at home and 
at London University; well trained in music. Travel in 
Russia 1833; considered diplomatic career; trip to Italy 
1838; married Elizabeth Barrett 1846, and during her life- 
time resided chiefly at Florence, Italy. After her death in 
1861, he lived in London and Venice. Among his works are 
“Pauline,” “Paracelsus,” ‘Strafford,’ ‘“Sordello,” “A Blot 
in the ’Scutcheon,’ “Colombe’s Birthday,” ‘Dramatis Per- 
sone,’ “A Soul’s Tragedy,’ “Luria,” “Men and Women,” 
“The Ring and the Book,” “Fifine at the Fair,” “The Inn- 
Album,” “Dramatic Idyls,” and “Asolando.” Epilogue to 
Asolando, 125; Incident of the French Camp, 180. 

Bryant, WILLIAM CULLEN. Born at Cummington, Mass., Nov. 
3, 1704; died at New York, June 12, 1878. He attended 
Williams College 1810-11; studied law in 1812 and was ad- 
mitted to the bar at Bridgewater in 1815. He gave up the 
practice of law in 1825. He worked on the New York Eve- 
ning Post in 1826, and became editor-in-chief and part owner 
of it in 1829. His precocity in Poetry is seen from the fact 
that he published “Thanatopsis” in 1817, and it was written 


237 


somewhat earlier. Besides his poetry he published transla- 
tions of the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey.” The Battle-Field, 34; 
To a Waterfowl, 20. 

Burns, Rosert. Born at Alloway, near Ayr, Scotland, Jan. 25, 
1759; died at Dumfries, Scotland, July 21, 17906. Received 
little education ; drudgery on a farm at Mt. Oliphant 1766-77 ; 
on a farm at Lochlea 1777-84, during which time there was 
a period of loose living and bad companionship; at the 
death of his father he and his brother Gilbert rented Moss- 
giel farm near Mauchline, where many of his best poems 
were written; winter of 1786-7 he visited Edinburgh, and 
was received. into the best society; winter of 1787-8 re- 
visited Edinburgh but rather coolly received by Edinburgh 
society; 1788 married Jean Armour, by whom he had pre- 
viously had several children. Took farm at Ellisland 1788; 
became an excise officer 1789. Removed to Dumfries 1791; 
later years characterized by depression and poverty. Some 
of his best-known poems are “The Holy Fair,” “The Cot- 
ter’s Saturday Night,’ and “Tam O’Shanter”; wrote many 
of the most popular songs in the English language. Happi- 
ness, 231; Imaginary Ills, 218. 

BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH. Born at Warren, R. I., Dec. 22, 18393 
died there, Sept. 5, 1905. He wrote many books for children, 
and was assistant editor of Youth's Companion. The 
Broken Pinion, 39. 

Byron, Lorp (George Gordon Byron). Born at London, Jan. 
22, 1788; died at Missolonghi, Greece, Apr. 19, 1824, and 
buried in parish church at Hucknell, near Newstead. Born 
with a deformed foot; much petted as a child; inherited 
title and estate at death of his granduncle, William, fifth 
Lord Byron, 1798. Studied at Harrow and at Cambridge 
University, receiving M.A. degree 1808. Traveled in Por- 
tugal, Spain, Greece, and Turkey 1809-11. In 1815 married 
Anna Milbanke, who left him 1816. In 1816 met Miss Clair- 
mont at Geneva, who bore him an illegitimate daughter, 
Allegra, 1817; in 1819 met Teresa, Countess Guiccioli, at 
Venice, and remained with her during his stay in Italy. 
Joined the Greek insurgents 1823, and died of a fever in 
their cause of freedom from the Turks. Among his works 
are “Hours of Idleness,’ ‘English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers,” “Childe Harold,” “The Giaour,” “The Corsair,” 
“The Prisoner of Chillon, dah ag OCT hy “Manfred, *~ and “Don 
Juan.” Envy, 141; Existence May Be Borne, 83; Great 
Men, 123; Life, 135; Sonnet on Chillon, 52. 


C 


Ca.xins, S. S. The World Is Waiting for You, 150. 
CAMERON, C. C. Success, 113. 


238 


CARMAN, Briss. Born at Fredericton, New Brunswick, Apr. 15, 
1861; now living at New Canaan, Conn. American poet, 
essayist, and journalist. His best- known books, done with 
Richard Hovey, are “Songs from Vagabondia” and “More 
Songs from Vagabondia.” Three Things, to. 

Cioucu, ArtHur Hucu. Born at Liverpool, Eng., Jan. 1, 1819; 
died at Florence, Italy, Nov. 13, 1861. He went to Rugby in 
1829 where he became a favorite with the famous Dr, 
Arnold, and in 1837 he attended Oxford. After serving in 
the headship of University Hall, London, he came to Amer- 
ica in 1852. He returned to England, and was married in 
1854. From 1859 until the end of his life his health became 
steadily worse. Life Is Struggle, 177. 

Cottins, Witit1aM. Born at Chichester, Eng., Dec. 25, 1721; 
died there, June 12, 1759. Studied at Winchester and at 
Oxford where he received an A.B. degree in 1743. In 1745 
went to London to write. Among his books are “Persian 
Eclogues” and “Odes.” He was insane the latter part of 
his life. Ode, 122. 

Coox, Eriza. Born in London about 1818; died at Thornton Hill, 
Wimbledon, Sept. 23, 1889. She contributed to various pe- 
riodicals, and in 1849 began to publish Eliza Cook’s Journal, 
the purpose of which was to advance mental culture. Where 
There’s a Will There’s a Way, 164 

Cooke, EpMuNp Vance. Born at Port Dover, Canada, June 5, 
1866. Educated principally at common schools. He began 
to give lecture entertainments in 1893, and has been for 
years one of the most popular lyceum entertainers before the 
public. Among his books are “Just Then Something Hap- 
pened,” “Told to the Little Tot,’ “Chronicles of the Little 
Tot,” “Impertinent Poems,” “Rimes to Be Read,’ “A Patch 
of Pansies,’ and “Companionable Poems.” 4 Watchword, 


Ke 

Cowper, Wiit1AM. Born at Great Berkhampstead, Herford- 
shire, Eng., Nov. 15, 1731; died at East Dereham, Norfolk, 
Apr. 25, 1800. From his tenth to his eighteenth year he at- 
tended Westminster School, entered the Middle Temple in 
1748, and was called to the bar in June, 1754. Through- 
out his life he was subject to attacks of suicidal mania 
and religious melancholy. Among his poems are “The 
Task,” “John Gilpin,’ and the “Olney Hymns.” He also 
translated Homer’s “Iliad” and “Odyssey.” Nature, 133. 


D 


Daty, THomas AucusTINE. Born at Philadelphia, May 28, 1871. 
Educated at Villanova College and Fordham University; 
received honorary M.A. and Litt.D. from Fordham Univer- 
sity and an honorary LL.D. from Notre Dame University 


239 


and from Boston College. Married Nannie Barrett in 1896. 
Has worked as reporter and editor on various Philadelphia 
papers. He is a member of the American Press Humorists. 
Among his books are “Canzoni,” “Carmina, ” “Madrigali,” 
“Songs of Wedlock,” “McAroni Ballads,” and “Herself and 
the Houseful.” All's Well, 99; Da Besta Frand, 148. 
Dunsar, Paut Laurence. Born at Dayton, Ohio, in 1872; died 
there, Feb. 9, 1906. This leading poet of the negro race was 
the son of ex-slaves. He graduated from high school in 
1891, having been editor of the school paper. He soon began 
to contribute poems to the regular magazines, but his suc- 
cess was slow. In 1893 he published a small volume en- 
titled “Oak and Ivy,’ which won many favorable reviews. 
His next book, “Majors and Minors,’ was enthusiastically 
reviewed by William Dean Howells, and thereafter his success 
was assured. He increased his following by giving many 
public recitals. He was in England in 1897; he received 
an appointment in the Library of Congress in Oct., 1879, at 
$720.00 a year, but resigned Dec. 31, 1898, to devote his 
entire time to writing. On March 6, 1898, he married Alice 
Ruth Moore, but the marriage proved to be an unhappy one. 
Soon followed a trip to Colorado in a futile search for 
health, a return to Washington, and in 1902 he and his 
mother settled again in Dayton, Ohio. Here he fought 
valiantly to the end against the ravages of tuberculosis. 
Joggin’ Erlong, 6; Just Whistle a Bit, 176; Keep A-Pluggiw 
Away, 105. 
E 


Exxtiot, HENRY RUTHERFORD. Recipe for Sanity, 47. 

Emerson, RALPH Watpo. Born at Boston, Mass., May 25, 1803; 
died at Concord, Mass., Apr. 27, 1882. Graduated at Har- 
vard College 1821, working his way; taught school; began 
to study for the ministry 1823; licensed to preach 1826; 
trip to the South for his health 1827-8; Unitarian minister 
in Boston 1829-32; European travel 1832-3; settled at Con- 
cord 1834; lectured extensively for over 30 years. Con- 
tributed to the Dial 1840-4; visited Europe 1847-8 and 1872-3. 
Lectured at Harvard 1868-70. Some of his works are “Na- 
ture,” “The American Scholar,” “Essays” (first and second 
series), “Representative Men,” “English Traits,” “The Con- 
duct of Life,” and “Society and Solitude.” Forbearance, 95. 


F 


Fretp, Eucene. Born at St. Louis, Mo., Sept. 2, 1850; died Nov. 
4, 1895. Connected with newspapers in Missouri and Col- 
orado 1873-83; became a member of the staff of the Chicago 
Daily News in 1883. Contentment, 5. 


240 


Fietps, JAMes Tuomas. Born at Portsmouth, N. H., Dec. 31, 
1817; died at Boston, Apr. 24, 1881. An American pub- 
lisher, editor, and author. His firm issued the works of the 
leading New England writers, among them Emerson, Long- 
fellow, Lowell, Hawthorne, and Thoreau. He edited the 
Atlantic Monthly from 1862 until 1870. The Captain’s 
Daughter, 86. 

Fiecis, DarreLtt. Born in 1882. An Irish poet, dramatist, and 
miscellaneous writer. Viking-Throes, 97. 

Fotey, JAMes Wriu1aM. Born at St. Louis, Mo., Feb. 4, 1874. 
Educated at the University of South Dakota. Member of 
Masonic Order and Past Grand Master of Masons. Had 
early ranch experience; knew Theodore Roosevelt during 
his ranching days. Began newspaper work on the Bis- 
marck, N. Dak., Tribune 1892. During the Great War he 
served seventeen months in army camps as an entertainer 
and inspirational lecturer, traveling fifty thousand miles and 
addressing a quarter of a million men. For fifteen years 
he has been lecturing and writing. His work includes books 
of verse, humorous sketches, and plays. At present associate 
editor of the Pasadena, Cal., Evening Post. Also special 
writer on Los Angeles Evening Express. Among his books 
are “Boys and Girls,’ “Tales of the Trail,’ “Friendly 
Rhymes,” “Voices of Song,” “Letters of William Green,” 
“Songs of Schooldays,” “Sing a Song of Sleepy Head,” and 
“Just-for-Fun Verses.” A Song of Gladness, 87. 

Foss, Sam Watter. Born at Candia, N. H., June 109, 1858; 
died in ro11. Graduated from Brown University 1882; 
editor 1883-93; general writer 1893-8; librarian at Somer- 
ville, Mass., from 1898; lecturer and reader of his own 
poems. Among his books are “Back Country Poems,” 
“Whiffs from Wild Meadows,” “Dreams in Homespun,” 
“Songs of War and Peace,’ and “Songs of the Average 
Man.” Drop Your Bucket Where You Are, 219; Land on 
Your Feet, 194; The Man Who Brings Up the Rear End, 42; 
Then Ag’in, 88; The Soul’s Spring Cleaning, 32; Work for 
Small Men, 12. 


G 


GARRISON, THEODOSIA. Born at Newark, N. J., 1874. Educated 
at private schools at Newark. Married Joseph Garrison of 
Newark 1808; married Frederick J. Faulks of Newark tort. 
Among her books are “The Joy of Life, and Other Poems,” 
“Earth Cry, and Other Poems,” and “The Dreamers.” 
Compensation, 69; The Failures, 185; Unconquered, 157. 

Gates, ErteN M. Huntincron. Born at Torrington, Conn., 
1834; died at New York City, Oct. 12, 1920. Schooling at 
Hamilton, N. Y. Among her books are “Treasures of 


241 


Kurium,” “The Dark,” “To the Unborn Peoples,” and “The 
Marble House.” Strength, 143. 

GILLILAN, STRICKLAND W. Born at Jackson, Ohio, Oct. 9, 1860. 
Attended Ohio University to junior year; began news- 
paper work on the Jackson, Ohio, Herald 1887; and has 
since been on the staffs of many newspapers and magazines 
in various capacities. Writer of humorous verse, and popu- 
lar lyceum lecturer. Among his books are “Including 
Finnigin,’ “Including You and Me,” “A Sample Case of 
Humor,” and “Sunshine and Awkwardness.” Becoming a 
Boe 187; Finnigin to Flannigan, 44; Watch Yourself Go 

y, 227. 

GILMAN, CHARLOTTE Perkins. Born at Hartford, Conn., July 
3, 1860. Excellent home instruction; school attendance 
scant; real education reading and thinking, mainly in natu- 
ral science, history, and sociology. Writer and lecturer on 
humanitarian topics, especially along lines of educational and 
legal advancement. The Forerunner, a monthly magazine, 
entirely written by her, published for seven years from 
1910. Among her publications are “In This Our World,” 
“Women and Economics,’ “Concerning Children,’ “The 
Home,” “Human Work,” “The Yellow Wallpaper,’ “The 
Man-made World,” “Moving the Mountain,” “What Diantha 
Did,” “The Crux,” and “His Religion and Hers.” An 
Obstacle, 48. 

Gray, THomas. Born in London, Eng., Dec. 26, 1716; died at 
Cambridge, July 30, 1771. Went to school at Eton and at 
Cambridge; went with Horace Walpole on “the grand tour” 
in 1739; after his return he resided chiefly at Cambridge 
where he became professor of modern history in 1768 but he 
never actively engaged in teaching. In 1757 he refused the 
laureateship. Gray was a man of marked eccentricity. While 
the body of his work is small, his poetry is of a high order. 
His most famous poem is “Elegy Written in a Country 
Churchyard.” Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 85. 

Guest, Epcar ALsert. Born at Birmingham, Eng., Aug. 20, 
1881; brought to the United States 1891; educated in gram- 
mar and high schools of Detroit, Mich. Connected with the 
Detroit Free Press since 1895; syndicates a daily poem in 
several hundred newspapers. His books are “A Heap 0’ 
Livin’,” “Just Folks,” “Over Here,” “Path to Home,” “When 
Day Is Done,” “All That Matters,” “Making the House a 
Home,” “My Job as a Father,” “The Passing Throng,” and 
“Poems of Patriotism.” A Man Must Want, 134; Let's Be 
Brave, 233; Stick to It, 9. 


H 


Hae, Epwarp Everett. Born at Boston, Mass., Apr. 3, 1822; 
died at Roxbury, Mass., June 10, 1909. His father was Nathan 


242 


Hale, the Revolutionary patriot. An American clergyman, 
author, and editor. His best known story is “The Man With- 
out a Country.” Look Up! 140. 

Hay, JoHn. Born at Salem, Ind., Oct. 8, 1838; died at New- 
berry, N. H., July 1, 1905. Among his many political offices 
were: assistant private secretary to President Lincoln 1861- 
65; assistant secretary of state 1879-81; ambassador to Great 
Britain 1897-98; secretary of state 1898-1905. Among his 
books are “Pike County Ballads,” “The Bread Winners,” and 
(with J. G. Nicolay) “Life of Abraham Lincoln.” Jim 
Bludso, 116. 

Hayne, Paut Hamirton. Born at Charleston, S. C., Jan. 1, 
1831; died July 6, 1886. Among his books of verse are 
“Avolio, and Other Poems” and “Legends and Lyrics.” Lyric 
of Action, 56. 

Hemans, Fericta DoroTHEA. Born at Liverpool, Eng., Sept. 25, 
1793; died near Dublin, May 16, 1835. She is best known 
for her lyrics, many of which are of continuing appeal. 
Casabianca, 132. 

Hentey, Witt1AM Ernest. Born at Gloucester, Eng., Aug. 23, 
1849; died July 11, 1903. Educated at the Crypt Grammar 
School at Gloucester. Afflicted with physical infirmity, and 
in hospital at Edinburgh 1874—an experience which gave 
the material for his “Hospital Sketches.” Went to London 
1877; edited London (a magazine of art) 1882-6; the Scots 
Observer (which became the National Observer) 1888-93; 
and the New Review 1893-8. Besides three plays which he 
wrote in collaboration with Robert Louis Stevenson, he is 
the author of “Views and Reviews,” “Hospital Sketches,” 
“London Voluntaries,” and “Hawthorn and Lavender.” When 
You Are Old, 120. 

Hopnces, D. F. Now Is the Time, 203. 

HoLLtanD, JosIAH GILBERT. Born at Belchertown, Mass., July 
24, 1819; died at New York City, Oct. 21, 1881. Editor of 
the _Springheld Republican 1849-66; editor-in-chief of Scrib- 
ners Monthly (which later became the Century Magazine). 
Among his poems are “Kathrina”’ and “Bitter-Sweet.” 
Wanted, 201. 

HoitmMeEs, OLIVER WENDELL. Born at Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 20, 
1809; died there Oct. 7, 1894. Physician; professor of 
anatomy and physiology in the medical school of Harvard 
University 1847-82. Some of his best-known poems are “Bill 
and Joe,” “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,’ and “The Chambered 
Nautilus.” Of his three novels “Elsie Venner” is the best 
known. His “Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table,” “Professor 
at the Breakfast-Table,” “Poet at the Breakfast-Table,” and 
“Over the Tea-Cups” all appeared originally in the Atlantic 
Monthly. Old Ironsides, 166. 

Hovucu, E. My Stout Old Heart and I, 186. 


243 


Hunt, JAMes Henry LeicuH. Born at Southgate, Eng., Oct. 109, 
1784: died at Putney, Eng., Aug. 28, 1859. Imprisoned for 
radical political views; writer of popular poems and essays. 
The Glove and the Lions, 146. 


J 


JoHNSON, Burces. Born at Rutland, Vt., Nov. 9, 1877. Gradu- 
ated from Amherst in 1899. Associated in editorial and 
advisory capacity with various publishing houses 1900-19; 
he is at present associate professor of English at Vassar 
College. Among his books are “Rhymes of Little Boys,” 
“Rhymes of Home,” “Bashful Ballads,’ “Rhymes of Little 
Folk,” “A Private Code, ” “The Bubble Hook ott “Youngsters,” 
and “As I Was Saying.” The Service, 30. 

Jounson, SAMUEL. Born at Litchfield, Eng, Sept. 18, 1709; died 
at London, Dec. 13, 1784. He attended Pembroke College, 
Oxford, somewhat irregularly, from 1728 to 1731. In 1735 
he married a widow, Mrs. Porter, who was some years his 
senior. The school he established in 1736 near Litchfield 
soon failed. He went to London in 1737. After various 
literary undertakings, he began his dictionary in 1747 and 
completed it in 1755. His tragedy “Irene” was produced in 
1749 with indifferent success. He wrote and published The 
Rambler from 1750-52, and The Idler from 1758-60. His 
wife died in 1752. In 1755 he received an honorary M.A. 
from Oxford. He wrote “Rasselas” during the evenings of 
one week in 1759 to defray his mother’s funeral expenses. 
His financial difficulties were solved after the accession of 
George III from whom he received an annual pension of 
£300. Johnson became the literary dictator of his day, and 
in spite of physical infirmities—he was blind in one eye, was 
afflicted with scrofula, and had a great unwieldy hulking 
body—he was welcomed into the homes of the leading people 
of his day. The real Johnson is revealed in his conversations 
which are preserved in Boswell’s “Life of Samuel Johnson.” 
To-Morrow, 55; Wealth, tot. 

Jonson, Ben. Born at Westminster, Eng., about 1573; died 
Aug. 6, 1637. Went to school at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields 
and Westminster. Shakespeare played one of the roles in 
his comedy “Every Man in His Humour” 1598. He went 
to France as the tutor of the son of Sir Walter Raleigh 
1613; was in the favor of the court, from which he received 
a pension. Attacked with palsy 1626, and later with dropsy, 
and confined to his bed most of his later years. Well-known 
plays besides the one cited above are ‘“Epiccene,”’ “The 
Alchemist,” “Volpone,” “Bartholomew Fair,’ and “Cata- 
line”; author of the lyric “Drink to Me Only With Thine 
Eyes,” and a volume of criticism “Timber.” Courage, 210. 


244 


K 


Kitmer, Joyce. Born at New Brunswick, N. J., Dec. 6, 1886; 
killed in action near the Ourcq, July 30, 1918. Graduated . 
from Rutgers College in 1904, and received his A.B. from 
Columbia in 1906. After a short experience as a teacher 
in a rural community he became an instructor of Latin in 
the Morristown High School. After a year of teaching he 
left that profession and obtained editorial work in New 
York City; during 1912-13 he wrote reviews for the New 
York Times Review of Books, and later he worked on the 
“Standard Dictionary.” The Dictionary was finished in two 
years, and from then on he held various editorial positions 
with such periodicals as The Churchman, The Literary 
Digest, Current Literature, and the Review of Reviews. In 
1913 he became a Roman Catholic. As soon as the United 
States entered the World War he enlisted although at the 
time he was the father of four children. From his arrival 
in France until his death he was in the very thick of the 
fighting. His wife, Aline Kilmer, is also well known for 
her books of poetry and essays. Trees, 213. 

Kinc, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Jr. Born at St. Joseph, Mich., 
Mar. 17, 1857; died at Bowling Green, Ky., Apr. 7, 1894. 
At an early age showed a remarkable talent in music; a 
public entertainer on the piano and reciter of his own verse. 
His poems collected in “Ben King’s Verse.” But Then, 212; 
Jane Jones, 14. 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. Born at Holne, Devonshire, Eng., June 12, 
1819; died at Eversley, Hampshire, Jan. 23, 1875. An Eng- 
lish clergyman and author. Among his better known books 
are “Yeast,’ “Alton Locke,’ “Westward Ho,’ and “The 
Water Babies.” Young and Old, 141. 

Krprtinc, Rupyarp. Born at Bombay, India, Dec. 30, 1865. 
Educated in England at United Service College; returned 
to India 1880; assistant editor of Civil and Military Gazette 
1882-89; returned to England 1889; resided in the United 
States for several years; has traveled in Japan and Aus- 
tralasia. Received the Noble Prize for Literature 1907; 
honorary degrees from McGill University, Durham, Oxford, 
and Cambridge. Among his books are “Departmental Dit- 
ties,” “Plain Tales from the Hills,’ “Under the Deodars,” 
“Phantom ’Rickshaw,” “Wee Willie Winkle,” “Life’s Handi- 
cap,” “The Light That Failed,” “Barrack-Room Ballads,” 
“The Jungle Book,” “The Second Jungle Book,” “The Seven 
Seas,” “Captains Courageous,’ “The Day’s Work,” “Kim,” 
“Just So Stories,” “Puck of Pook’s Hill,” “Actions and 
Reactions,” “Rewards and Fairies,’ “Fringes of the Fleet,” 
and “Sea Warfare.” Gunga Din, 208; Mother o’ Mine, 37; 


Recessional, 16. 


245 


Kiser, SAMUEL ExttswortH. Born at Shippenville, Pa. Edu- 
cated in Pennsylvania and Ohio. Began newspaper work in 
Cleveland, and from 1900 until 1914 was editorial and spe- 
cial writer for the Chicago Record-Herald. Noted for his 
humorous sketches which have been widely syndicated. His 
poem “Unsubdued” is, like Henley’s ‘Invictus,’ a splendid 
portrayal of undaunted courage in the face of defeat. 
Among his books are “Georgie,” “Charles the Chauffeur,” 
“Love Sonnets of an Office Boy,” “Ballads of the Busy 
Days,” “Sonnets of a Chorus Girl,’ “The Whole Glad 
Year,” and “The Land of Little Care.” The Certain Vic- 
tory, 189. 

Knox, Witt1AM. Born at Firth, Roxburghshire, Scotland, Aug. 
17, 1789; died at Edinburgh, Nov. 12, 1825. Oh, Why Should 
the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud, 168. 


L 


Lampton, Wiu1amM J. Jf One Has Failed, 77. 

Lanpor, WALTER SAVAGE. Born at Warwick, Eng., Jan. 30, 1775; 
died at Florence, Italy, Sept. 17, 1864. A noted English poet 
and prose-writer whose life was more or less stormy because 
of his ardent republicanism and his readiness to engage in 
personal quarrels. No Word for Fear, 91; Persistence, 113; 
Why Repine, My Friend? 13. 

Lavater, Louis. A contemporary Australian poet. Courage, 121. 

LettcH, Mary Sinton. Born in New York City in 1876. She 
left Smith College at the end of her second year; she trav- 
eled abroad the next two years to regain her health. Her 
health broke again in 1905, and to recuperate she went voyag- 
ing up and down the Atlantic coast in sailing ships. She 
married a Britisher whom she met in Buenos Aires, and 
went to live on the Lynnhaven River, just outside of Norfolk, 
Va. She is a frequent contributor to magazines. Point of 
View, 63. 

Litsey, Epwin Carutste. The Dreams Ahead, 154. 

LoncrELLow, Henry WapswortH. Born at Portland, Me., Feb. 
27, 1807; died at Cambridge, Mass., Mar. 24, 1882. Gradu- 
ated from Bowdoin College 1825; traveled in Europe 1826-9; 
professor of modern languages at Bowdoin 1829-34; again 
visited Europe 1835-6; professor of modern languages and 
belles lettres at Harvard College 1836-54; European travel 
1868-9. Some of his best-known poems are “A Psalm of 
Life,” “The Village Blacksmith,” “The Wreck of the Hes- 
perus,’ “The Skeleton in Armor,” “The Bridge,” “Evange- 
line,” “The Building of the Ship,’ “Hiawatha,” “The Court- 
ship of Miles Standish,’ and “Tales of a Wayside Inn”; 
author of two novels, “Hyperion” and “Kavanagh”; trans- 
lator of Dante’s “Divine Comedy.” Excelsior, 90. 


246 


Lowe.tt, JAMES Russe_t. Born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 
1819; died there, Aug. 12, 1891. Graduated from Harvard 
1838; elected to professorship there in 1855; editor of the 
Atlantic Monthly 1857-62, and of the North American Review 
1863-72; was United States minister to Spain 1877-80, and 
to Great Britain 1880-85. Among his poems are “The Vision 
of Sir Launfal, ” “A Fable for Critics,” and “The Biglow 
Papers.” His books of essays include “Fireside Travels,” 
“Among My Books,” and “My Study Windows.” The Pres- 


ent Crisis, 170. 
M 


Mackay, CuHartes. Born at Perth, Eng., Mar. 27, 1814; died 
at London, Dec. 24, 1889. Editor of the Glasgow Argus 
1844-47 and of the Illustrated London News 1852-59; New 
York correspondent of the London Times during the Civil 
War. If I Were a Voice, 76. 

McCrag, JoHN. Born at Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872; died 
in an army hospital at Wimereux, France, Jan. 28, 1918. 
In Flanders Fields, 163. 

MAITLAND, Extra FULLER. Courage, 121. 

MarkKHAM, Epwin. Born at Oregon City, Ore, Apr. 23, 1852. 
Went to California 1857; worked at farming and black- 
smithing, and herded cattle and sheep, during boyhood. Edu- 
cated at San José Normal School and two Western colleges; 
special student in ancient and modern literature and Chris- 
tian sociology; principal and superintendent of schools in 
California until 1899. Mr. Markham is one of the most dis- 
tinguished of American poets and lecturers. His poem “The 
Man with the Hoe” in his first volume of poems is world- 
famous, and has been heralded by many as “the battle-cry 
of the next thousand years.” He has sounded in his work 
the note of universal brotherhood and humanitarian interest, 
and has been credited as opening up a new school of 
Ametican poetry appealing to the social conscience, where 
Whitman appealed only to the social consciousness. His 
books are “The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems,” 
“Lincoln, and Other Poems,” “The Shoes of Happiness, and 
Other Poems,” and “Gates of Paradise, and Other Poems.” 
His book “California the Wonderful’ is a volume of beauti- 
ful prose giving a historical, social, and literary study of 
the state. The Man with the Hoe, 18. 

Maroutis, Donatp Rosert Perry. Born at Walnut, Bureau 
County, Ill., July 29, 1878. Conductor of ‘The Sun Dial” in 
the New York Sun for a number of years; is now conduct- 
ing a similar column in the New York Tribune. Among his 
books are “Danny’s Own Story,” “Dreams and Dust,” “Cruise 
of the Jasper B.,” “Hermione,” “Prefaces,” “The Old Soak,” 
“Carter and Other People,” “Noah an’ Jonah an’ Cap’n John 


247 


Smith,’ “Poems and Portraits,” “Revolt of the Oyster,” 
“Sonnets to a Red-Haired Lady,” “The Dark Hours,” and 
(with Christopher Morley) “Pandora Lifts the Lid.” The 
Seeker, 84; Unrest, 162. 

MASEFIELD, JouHNn. Born in Shropshire, Eng., in 1874; now liv- 
ing in London. Among his books are “Salt Water Ballads,” 
“Captain Margaret,’ “The Tragedy of Nan,’ “The Tragedy 
of Pompey the Great,” “The Everlasting Mercy,’ “The 
Widow in the Bye-Street,” “Dauber,” “The Daffodil Fields,” 
“Philip the King,” “The Faithful,” “Good Friday,” “Reynard 
the Fox,’ “Multitude and Solitude,’ and “Hard Sarker.” 
To His Mother, C. L. M., 200. 

Mason, Watt. Born at Columbus, Ontario, Canada, May 4, 1862. 
Self-educated. Came to the United States 1880; was con- 
nected with the Atchison Globe 1885-7; later with Lincoln, 
Neb., State Journal; editorial paragrapher of the Evening 
News, Washington, 1893; with the Emporia, Kan., Gazetie 
since 1907. Writes a daily prose poem which is syndicated 
in over two hundred newspapers, and is believed to have the 
largest audience of any living writer. Among his books are 
“Rhymes of the Range,” “Uncle Walt,’ “Walt Mason’s Busi- 
ness Prose Poems,” “Rippling Rhymes,” “Horse Sense,” 
“Terse Verse,’ and “Walt Mason, His Book.” A Glance at 
History, 31; Politeness, 167; Pretty Good Schemes, 29. 

Miter, Joaquin. Born in Indiana, Nov. 11, 1841; died Feb. 17, 
1913. He went to Oregon 1854; was afterwards a miner 
in California; studied law; was a judge in Grant County, 
Oregon, 1866-70. For a while he was a journalist in Wash- 
ington, D. C.; returned to California 1887. He is the author 
of various books of verse, and is called “The Poet of the 
Sierras.” On the Firing Line, 135; The Bravest Battle, 26; 
Washington by the Delaware, 206. 

Mitton, JoHN. Born at London, Dec. 9, 1608; died there Nov. 
8, 1674. Attended St. Paul’s School; at Cambridge 1625-32. 
At Horton, writing and studying, 1632-38. In 1638 went to 
Italy; met Galileo in Florence. During the great Civil War 
wrote pamphlets against the Royalists; was made Latin 
Secretary to the new Commonwealth 1649; became totally 
blind 1652. Until his third marriage in 1663, his domestic 
life had been rendered unhappy by the undutifulness of his 
three daughters. Among his works are “L’Allegro,” “Il Pen- 
seroso,” “Comus,” ‘“Lycidas,” “Paradise Lost,” “Paradise 
Regained,” and “Samson Agonistes.” On His Blindness, 151. 

Mitrorp, Mary Russett. Born at Alresford, Hampshire, Eng., 
Dec. 16, 1787; died at Swallowfield, Jan. 10, 1855. A miscel- 
laneous writer. Rienzt’s Address to the Romans, 190. 

MoNntTGOMERY, JAMES. Born at Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, Nov. 4, 
1776; died Apr. 30, 1854. Scottish poet, hymn-writer, and 
lecturer. Make Way for Liberty, 138. 


248 


More, Hannaw. Born at Stapleton, Gloucestershire, Eng., Feb. 
2, 1745; died at Clifton, Sept. 7, 1833. An English religious 
writer, an opponent of the slave trade, and supporter of 
schools among the poor to counteract the prevailing atheism. 
An Immortal Guest, 102. 

Morcan, ANGELA. Born at Washington, D. C. Educated under 
private tutors and at public schools; took special work at 
Columbia University. Began early as a newspaper writer, 
first with the Chicago American; then with the Chicago 
Journal, and New York and Boston papers. She is a mem- 
ber of the Poetry Society of America, The MacDowell Club, 
Three Arts, and the League of American Pen Women. She 
is one of the most eloquent readers before the public to- 
day; was a delegate to the Congress of Women at The 
Hague 1915, at which she read her poem “Battle Cry of 
the Mothers.” Her five books of poems are “The Hour 
Has Struck,’ “Utterance, and Other Poems,’ “Forward, 
March!” “Hail, Man!” and “Because of Beauty.” Her 
book of fiction “The Imprisoned Splendor” contains well- 
known stories (“What Shall We Do with Mother?” “The 
Craving,” “Such Is the Love of Woman,” and “The Mak- 
ing of a Man’), some of which appeared previously in 
magazines. In the Beginning, 175; Room! 60. 

Morey, CHRISTOPHER DaritincTon. Born at Haverford, Pa, 
May 5, 1800. Graduated from Haverford College in 1910; 
Rhodes’ Scholar at New College, Oxford, 1910-13. Married 
Helen Booth Fairchild in 1914. Editorial staff of Doubleday, 
Page & Co. 1913-17, Ladies’ Home Journal 1917-18, Philadel- 
phia Evening Public Ledger 1918-20, New York Evening 
Post 1920-24. Among his books are “Parnassus on Wheels,” 
“Songs for a Little House,’ “Shandygaff,” “The Rocking 
Horse,” “The Haunted Book Shop,’ “Mince Pie,” ‘“Pipe- 
fuls,”’ “Hide and Seek,” “Tales from a Rolltop Desk,” ‘Plum 
Pudding,” “Chimneysmoke,” “Where the Blue Begins,” “The 
Power of Sympathy,’ “Inward Ho!” and “Parsons’ Pleas- 
ure.” Soliloquy for a Third Act, 128. 

Morris, Georce Pore. Born at Philadelphia, Oct. 10, 1802; died 
at New York, July 6, 1864. An American journalist and 
poet whose best known poem is “Woodman, Spare That 
Tree.” A Leap For Life, 103. 

Morris, JosepH. Born in Ohio 1889. College and university 
education; professor of English; connected with publishing 
houses since 1917 in various editorial capacities. A Prayer 
for Courage, 226; Crises, 51; Dodgin’ Trouble, 114; Influ- 
ence, 70; Life, 207; The Ambitious Oyster, 156; The Mush- 
room and the Oak, 182. d 

Morris, Sir Lewts. Born at Carmarthen, Eng., 1832; died Nov. 
12, 1907. A minor English poet. Strong Hearts, 35; They 
Only Live Who Dare, 26. 


249 


N 


NEWBOLT, Sir Henry. Born at Bilston, Eng., June 6, 1862. Edu- 
cated at Oxford; practised law until 1899; editor of Monthly 
Review 1900-04; Vice-President of the Royal Society of Lit- 
erature; created a Knight 1915. Among his books are 
“Taken from the Enemy,” “Mordred,” “Admirals All,” “The 
Island Race,’ “The Old Country,” “The Book of Cupid,” 
ste Old and New,” and “The New June.” Admirals 

2A 


P 


Parmer, T. H. Try, Try Again, 38. 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. Born at London, Oct. 30, 1825; died 
there, Feb. 2, 1864. Her father was Bryan Waller Procter. 
Many of her poems appeared in Charles Dickens’s maga- 
zine, Household Words. In spite of poor health, she spent 
much of her time in charitable work. In later life she 
became a Roman Catholic. Now, 75. 

ProcTer, BryAN WALLER (“Barry Cornwall’). Born at Leeds, 
Eng., Nov. 21, 1787; died Oct. 5, 1874. Educated at Harrow; 
schoolmate of Byron and Sir Robert Peel; called to the 
bar 1831; commissioner of lunacy 1832-61. Among his books 
are “Dramatic Scenes, and Other Poems,” “A Sicilian Story,” 
“Flood of Thessaly,” and “English Songs.” Courage, 144. 


R 


Raskin, Puitre M. Contemporary Jewish poet. The Road, 59. 

Reap, THomMas BucHANAN. Born in Chester County, Pa., Mar. 
12, 1822; died at New York, May 11, 1872. An American 
poet and painter. Sheridan’s Ride, 106. 

Rice, GRANTLAND. Born at Nashville, Tenn., Nov. 1, 1880. At- 
tended Vanderbilt University. Worked as sporting writer 
on the Atlanta Journal; came to New York City in IgItI. 
His sporting column, “The Sportlight,” is said to be more 
widely syndicated and more widely read than any other writ- 
ing on topics of sport in the United States. Irvin S. Cobb 
says that it often reaches the height of pure literature, and 
as a writer of homely, simple American verse Grantland Rice 
is held by many to be the logical successor to James Whit- 
comb Riley. He is author of “Songs of the Stalwart,” “Songs 
of the Open,” and “Sportlights of 1923,” and editor of the 
American Golfer. A Philosophy, 196; Ballade of the Game- 
fish, 230; Breaker and Maker, 127; The Conqueror, 220; 
The Winner, 28; What Indeed: ? 170. 

RitEy, JAMES Wuirtcoms. Born at Greenfield, Ind., 1849; died 
at Indianapolis, Ind., July 22, 1916. Public school education; 
received honorary degree of M.A. from Yale 1902; Litt.D. 


250 


——. 


from Wabash College 1903 and from the University of Penn- 

sylvania 1904, and LL.D. from Indiana University 1907. Be- 
gan contributing poems to Indiana papers 1873; known as 
the “Hoosier Poet,’ and much of his verse in the middle 
Western and Hoosier dialect. Among his books are “The 
Old Swimmin’ Hole,” “Afterwhiles,” “Old Fashioned Roses,” 
“Pipes o’ Pan at Zekesbury,” “Neighborly Poems,” “Green 
Fields and Running Brooks,’ “Poems Here at Home,” 
“Child-Rhymes,” “Love Lyrics,” “Home Folks,” “Farm- 
Rhymes,” “An Old Sweetheart of Mine,” “Out to Old Aunt 
Mary’s,” “A Defective Santa Claus,’ “Songs o’ Cheer,” 
“Boys of the Old Glee Club,” “Raggedy Man,” “Little 
Orphant Annie,” “Songs of Home,” “When the Frost Is on 
the Punkin,” “All the Year Round,” “Knee-Deep in June,” 
“A Song of Long Ago,” and “Songs of Summer.” His 
complete works are issued by the Bobbs-Merrill Company 
in the “Biographical Edition of James Whitcomb Riley” 1913. 
A Song, 232; Let Something Good Be Said, 17. 

Rowe, Nicuoras. Born at Little Barford, Bedfordshire, Eng., 
1674; died Dec. 6, 1718. He became poet laureate in 1715. 
Among his tragedies are “The Fair Penitent,’ “Jane Shore,” 
and “Lady Jane Grey.” The Brave, 215. 

Ryan, AspraM JosEPpH (Father Ryan). Born at Norfolk, Va., 
Aug. 15, 1839; died at Louisville, Ky., Apr. 22, 1886. 
Shortly after his ordination as a Catholic priest he entered 
the Confederate army as a chaplain. After the close of the 
War he founded and edited The Banner of the South at 
Augusta, Ga. Night Thoughts, 94. 


S 


Saxe, Jonn Goprrey. Born at Highgate, Vt., June 2, 1816; died 
at Albany, N. Y., Mar. 31, 1887. An American poet, jour- 
nalist, and lecturer. He is chiefly known for his humorous 
poems. He was the unsuccessful Democratic candidate for 
governor of Vermont in 1859 and 1860. Where There’s a 
Will There’s a Way, 224. 

Scott, Str Water. Born at Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771; died at 
Abbotsford, Sept. 21, 1832. He became lame in infancy. He 
was educated at the Edinburgh high school and university, 
and held several political offices between 1799 and 1806. In 
1797 he married Miss Charpentier, daughter of a French 
refugee. The publishing business with which he was asso- 
ciated failed in 1826 for £120,000. Scott also had private 
debts of £30,000. As a matter of honor he assumed the entire 
debt, and by sheer industry in writing all the debts were 
paid, the last amounts being realized from the sale of his 
copyrights after his death. Among his books are “The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel,” “The Lady of the Lake,” “Marmion,” 


251 


“Waverly,” “Guy Mannering,’ “The Antiquary,” “Old Mor- 
tality,” “The Black Dwarf,’ “Rob Roy,” “The Heart of 
Midlothian,” “The Bride of Lammermoor,” “Ivanhoe,” “The 
Monastery,” “The Abbot,” “Kenilworth,” “The Pirate,” “The 
Fortunes of Nigel,” ‘“Peveril of the Peak,’ “Quentin Dur- 
ward,” “St. Ronan’s Well,” “Redgauntlet,” “The Talisman,” 
“Woodstock,” “The Fair Maid of Perth,’ “The Surgeon’s 
Daughter,” “Anne of Geierstein, ” “Count Robert of Paris,” 
and “Castle Dangerous.” Breathes There a Man, 57. 

Sreecer, ALAN. Born in New York, June 22, 1888; killed on the 
field of Belloy-en-Santerre, France, July Agent 1016, Lived on 
Staten Island from his first to his tenth year. In 1808 the 
family returned to New York, and he attended the Horace 
Mann School. In 1900 the family moved to Mexico where 
he spent the impressionable years of early youth. At 14 he 
was sent to the Hackley School at Tarrytown, N. Y. He 
entered Harvard College in 1906, and later became one of 
the editors of the Harvard Monthly. After spending 1910-12 
in New York he left for Paris where he entered into the 
literary life of the Latin Quarter. In less than three weeks 
after the beginning of the World War, he enlisted in the 
Foreign Legion of France. J Have a Rendezvous with 
Death, 8. 

SERVICE, Ropert Witit1AM. Born at Preston, Eng., Jan. 10, 1874. 
Educated at Hillhead Public School, Glasgow; served appren- 
ticeship with the Commercial Bank of Scotland, Glasgow ; 
emigrated to Canada and settled on Vancouver Island; for 
a while engaged in farming, and later traveled up and down 
the Pacific Coast, following many occupations; finally joined 
the staff of the Canadian Bank of Commerce in Victoria, © 
B. C., 1905; was later transferred to White Horse, Yukon 
Territory, and then to Dawson; he spent eight years in the 
Yukon, much of it in travel. Tn Europe during the Great 
War; in Paris 1921. Among his books are “The Spell of 
the Yukon,” “Ballads of a Cheechako,”’ “Rhymes of a Roll- 
ing Stone,” “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” “Ballads of a 
Bohemian,” “Poisoned Paradise,” and “The Roughneck.” 
Barb-wire Bill, 22; The Lunger, 228. 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. Born at Stratford-on-Avon, Apr. 23, 
1564; died there Apr. 23, 1616, and buried in Stratford 
church. Probably attended Stratford Grammar School ; 
married Anne Hathaway, who was eight years his senior, 
Noy., 1582; a daughter, Susanna, born May 1, 1583; twins, 
Hamnet and Judith, born 1585. About 1585 went to London, 
and became connected with the theater as actor, reviser 
of old plays, etc. His son Hamnet died 1506; his father 
applied for a coat of arms 1596. Bought New Place at 
Stratford 1597; coat of arms granted 1599; shareholder in 
Globe theater 1599. His father died 1601; his daughter 


252 


Susanna married to John Hall, a physician at Stratford, 
1607; his mother died 1608. Retired from theatre and re- 
turned to Stratford about 1611. His daughter Judith mar- 
ried to Thomas Quinney, a vintner, 1616; his wife died 
1623; last descendant, Lady Bernard, died 1670. Folio edi- 
tion of his plays 1623. Characterized by surpassing ability 
in both comedy and tragedy, extraordinary insight into 
human character, and supreme mastery of language. Be- 
sides his plays, which are too well known to require listing, 
he wrote “Sonnets,” “Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of 
Lucrece.” Content, 153; Mind, 183; Speech before Harfleur, 
96; Valiant Redress, 41; Valor, 21. 

Sit, Epwarp Row.anp. Born at Windsor, Conn., 1841; died at 
Cleveland, Ohio, Feb. 27, 1887. Graduated from Yale 1861; 
professor of English at University of California 1874-82. 
The Deseriter, 80. 

SmitH, Bette E. Jf I Should Die To-Night, 71. 

SmitH, May Louise Ritey. Born in 1842; died in 1916. An 
American writer. Jf We Knew, 54. 

SOUTHWELL, Ropert. Born about 1561; executed at Tyburn, 
Feb. 21, 1595. Educated at Paris; received into the Society 
of Jesus 1578; returned to England 1586; became chap- 
lain to the Countess of Arundel 1589; betrayed to the au- 
thorities 1592; imprisoned for three years and finally exe- 
cuted. Procrastination, 609. 

STANTON, FRANK LeEzpy. ‘Born at Charleston, S. C., Feb. 22, 
1857. Received a common school education; served ap- 
prenticeship as printer; identified with the Atlanta press for 
years, especially with the Atlanta Constitution in which his 
poems have been a feature, and have won for him a unique 
place among modern verse writers. Some of his books are 
“Songs of the Soil,” “Comes One With a Song,” “Songs from 
Dixie Land,” “Up from Georgia,” and “Little Folks Down 
South.” Best o’ Fellers, 211; Fellow Who Had Done His 
Best, 184; He Whistled, 50; “Tollable Well!” 193. 

STEDMAN, EpMUND CLARENCE. Born at Hartford, Conn., Oct. 8, 
1833; died at New York, Jan. 18, 1908. He entered Yale in 
1849 but left in his junior year; he was a war correspondent 
for the New York World 1861-63; later became a stock 
broker in New York City. Besides his own books of poems 
he edited several standard anthologies, and wrote consider- 
able literary criticism. Wanted—a Man, 152. 

STEVENSON, Ropert Louis. Born at Edinburgh, Nov. 13, 18503 
died at Apia, Samoa, Dec. 4, 1894. Early education irregular 
because of poor health; went to Italy with his parents 
1863; at Edinburgh University 1867-73, at first preparing 
for engineering but later taking up law; admitted to the bar 
1875 but never practised. Various trips to the Continent 
between 1873-79; visited America 1879-80; resided in Switzer- 


253 


land, France, and England, 1882-87; came to America again 
1887-88; voyages in Pacific 1888-91; at Vailima, Samoa, 
1891-94. A conspicuous example of a man always in poor 
health yet courageous and optimistic throughout his life. 
Among his books are “A Lodging for the Night,” “Travels 
with a Donkey,’ “Virginibus Puerisque,” “New Arabian 
Nights,” “Treasure Island,” “A Child’s Garden of Verse,” 
“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “Kid- 
napped,” “The Master of Ballantrae,’ ‘Father Damien,” 
“Ebb Tide,’ and “Weir of Hermiston.” Not Yet, My 
Soul, 92. 

_ Story, WiLL1AM WHETMoRE. Born at Salem, Mass., Feb. 109, 
1819; died at Vallombrosa, Italy, Oct. 7, 1895. An American 
sculptor and poet. Jo Victis, 205. 

Strauss, JosepH. Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, Jan. 7, 1870. Edu- 
cated at Hughes High School and Cincinnati University from 
the Engineering Department of which he was graduated with 
distinction in 1892. A leading civil engineer specializing in 
the construction of bridges. As an avocation Mr. Strauss 
has followed his natural bent for writing. The Optimist, 112. 


Ai 


TayLor, Bayarp. Born at Kennett Square, Chester County, Pa., 
Jan. 11, 1825; died at Berlin, Dec. 19, 1878. Taylor was a 
constant traveler, visiting Great Britain, Germany, Switzer- 
land, Italy, and France on foot 1844-46; he went to California 
as correspondent for the New York Tribune 1849-50; he con- 
tinued his world travels 1851-55, joining Perry’s expedition 
to Japan. He was secretary of the legation at St. Petersburg 
1862-63, and was appointed United States minister at Berlin 
in 1878. He lectured extensively, and wrote many books of 
travels and several novels. Among his translations is Goethe’s 
“Faust” in the original meters. The Song of the Camp, 1098. 

TAyYtor, Str Henry. Born near Durham, Eng., Oct. 18, 1800; 
died at Bournemouth, Mar. 27, 1886. He entered the 
colonial office in 1824, retiring in 1872. He became editor 
of the London Magazine in 1824. He was knighted in 1869. 
His chief dramas are “Philip van Artevelde,” “Edwin the 
Fair,” and “The Virgin Widow.” His other works include 
“The Statesman,’ “Notes from Life,’ and “Notes from 
Books.” Heari-Rest, 53. 

TENNYSON, ALFRED Lorp. Born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, Eng., 
Aug. 6, 1809; died at Aldworth House, near Haslemere, Sur- 
rey, Oct. 6, 1892. Student at Cambridge, 1828-31, but did not 
take a degree; trip to the Pyrenees with Arthur Hallam 
1832; granted a pension of £200 by Peel 1845; after residing 
successively at Twickenham and AlIdworth, he settled at 
Farringford, the Isle of Wight, 1853. Became poet laureate 


254 


“ 
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ay 


1850; raised to the peerage 1884. Some of his well-known 
poems are “The Lady of Shalott,’ “The Palace of Art,” 
“The Lotus Eaters,’ “A Dream of Fair Women,” “C£none,” 
“Morte d’Arthur,” “Dora,” “Ulysses,” “Locksley Hall,” “The 
Princess,” “In Memoriam,” “Maud,” “Ode on the Death of 
the Duke of Wellington,” “Charge of the Light Brigade,” 
“Tdylls of the King,’ “Enoch Arden,” and the plays “Queen 
Mary” and “Becket.” The Charge of the Light Brigade, 130. 
TuHomson, JAMES. Born at Ednam, Roxburghshire, Scotland, 
Sept. I1, 1700; died near Richmond, Eng., Aug. 27, 1748. 
He was educated at Edinburgh. Although he wrote a num- 
ber of dramas his fame as an author rests chiefly upon “The 
Seasons.” Bearing Sorrow, 81; Bear Up a While, 119. 
TuorpPe, Rose Hartwick. Born at Mishawka, Ind., July 18, 
1850; now living at San Diego, Cal. The Curfew Bell, 158. 
TiIcKNor, Francis Orray. Born in Baldwin County, Ga., in 
1822; died near Columbus, Ga., in 1874. Little Giffen, 111. 
Timrop, Henry. Born at Charleston, S. C., Dec. 8, 1829; died at 
Columbia, S. C., Oct. 6, 1867. He is chiefly remembered for 
his Confederate war lyrics. Magnolia Cemetery Ode, 122. 


U 


UNTERMEYER, Louis. Born at New York, Oct. 1, 1885. At- 
tended De Witt Clinton High School. Married Jean Starr 
in 1907. Connected with his father’s and uncle’s manufac- 
turing jewelry business until 1923, at which time he resigned 
so that he might devote all of his time to study and writing. 
Among his books are “Challenge,” “——- and Other Poets,” 
“These Times,” “The New Adam,” “Roast Leviathan,” “This 
Singing World,’ and “American Poetry Since 1900.” He is 
also the editor of such well-known anthologies as “Modern 
American Verse’ and “Modern British Verse.” Challenge, 
147; Prayer, 7. 

V 


Van Dyke, Henry. Born at Germantown, Pa., Nov. 10, 1852; 
graduated at Polytechnical Institute of Brooklyn 1869; A.B. 
degree from Princeton 1873; M.A. degree from there 1876; 
graduated from Princeton Theological Seminary 1877; 
studied at University of Berlin, 1877-79; has received honor- 
ary degree from Princeton, Harvard, Yale, Union, Wes- 
leyan, Pennsylvania, and Oxford. Pastor of United Con- 
gregational Church, Newport, R. I., 1879-82, and of the 
Brick Presbyterian Church, New York, 1883-1900; professor 
of English literaturg at Princeton from 1900; U. S. minister 
to the Netherlands and Luxemburg 1913-17. Author of 
“The Poetry of Tennyson,’ “Sermons to Young Men,” 
“Little Rivers,” “The Other Wise Man,” “The First Christ- 


255 


mas Tree,’ “The Builders, and Other Poems,’ “The Lost 
Word,” “Fisherman’s Luck,’ “The Toiling of Felix, and 
Other Poems,’ “The Blue Flower,’ “Music, and Other 
Poems,” “Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land,” “The Mansion,” 
“The Unknown Quantity,” “Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts,” 
“Companionable Books,” and “Songs Out of Doors.” Doors 
of Daring, 68; Reliance, 217. 


W 


Watter, Howarp Arnoitp. I Would Be True, 33. 

Warp, Lypria Avery Coontey. Born at Lynchburg, Va., Jan. 31, 
1845; now living at Wyoming, N. Y. To-Day, 205. 

WatTERHOUSE, ALFRED J. To the Man Who Fails, 72. 

WarTerMAN, Nrxon. Born at Newark, Ill, Nov. 12, 1859. At- 
tended Valparaiso University. Married Nellie Haskins in 
1883. Associated with newspapers in Omaha, Chicago, and 
Boston. Among his books are “A Book of Verses,” “In 
Merry Mood,” “Boy Wanted,” “Sonnets of a Budding Bard,” 
“Sunshine Verses,” and “For You and Me.” Keep A-Trying, 
221; To Know All Is to Forgwe All, 115. 

WESLEY, JoHN. Born at Epworth, Eng., June 28, 1703; died at 
London, Mar. 2, 1791. He was educated at the Charter- 
house and at Christ Church, Oxford. He served as a curate 
to his father 1727-29; later became a member of an earnest 
religious group at Oxford; came to Georgia as a missionary 
in 1735, returning to England in 1738. He is chiefly known 
as the founder of Methodism, although his literary work was 
extensive. He made many permanent contributions to hym- 
nology. A Rule, 3. 

WHITMAN, WALT. Born at by eat Hills, Long Island, N. Y., May 
au, 1810; died at Camden, vp "Mar. 26, 1892. In’ early 
life he was a printer, Sarai and newspaper man; he was 
an army nurse in the Civil War until incapacitated by malaria 
in 1864. He was dismissed as a government clerk in 1865 
on account of the unconventional character of his volume 
“Leaves of Grass.” He soon received another appointment 
which he held until 1873 when he was disabled by paralysis. 
The book mentioned above was frequently revised and added 
to, and remains one of the greatest works produced in 
America. O Captain! My Captain! 1097. 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Born at Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 
17, 1807; died at Hampton Falls, N. H., Sept. 7, 1892. Of 
Quaker ancestory; father a poor farmer; as a boy he in- 
jured his health by hard work on the farm. Taught school; 
attended Haverhill Academy for two terms 1827-8; edited 
Haverhill Gazette 1830; réturned to the farm in broken 
health 1832. Member of Massachusetts Legislature 1835-6. 
An ardent opponent of slavery; edited the Pennsylvania 


256 


Freeman 1838-40; several times attacked by mobs because 
of his views on slavery. Leading writer for the Washing- 
ton National Era 1847-57; contributed to the Atlantic 
Monthly 1857. Some of his well-known poems are “Maud 
Muller,” “The Barefoot Boy,” “Barbara Frietchie,”’ “Snow- 
Bound,” and “The Eternal Goodness.” Barbara Frietchie, 
108; Forgiveness, 53. 

Witcox, Etta WHEELER. Born at Johnston Centre, Wis., 1855; 
died at her home in Connecticut, Oct. 31, I919. Educated 
at the University of Wisconsin. Among her books are ‘“Mau- 
rine,” “Poems of Pleasure,” “Kingdom of Love,” “Poems of 
Passion,” “Poems of Progress,’ “Poems of Sentiment,” “New 
Thought Common Sense,” “Picked Poems,” “Gems from 
Wwalcok, rain.) Love,” “Hope,” “Cheer,” and’) "The 
World and I.” Ambition’s Trail, 165; An Inspiration, 4; 
If I Were a Man, a Young Man, 36; Resolve, 124; The 
Winds of Fate, it. 

Wootsey, SARAH CHAUNCEY (“Susan Coolidge’). Born at 
Cleveland, Ohio, about 1845; died at Newport, R. I., Apr. 9, 
1925. She wrote many books for children and several vol- 
umes of verse. Forward, 223. 

WorpswortH, Witt1aAM. Born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, 
Eng., Apr. 7, 1770; died at Rydal Mount, Apr. 23, 1850. 
Educated at Hawkshead grammar school and Cambridge 
University, where he graduated 1791. Traveled on Continent 
1790; in France 1791-2, where he sympathized with the 
French republicans. Received £900 legacy 1795, and settled 
with his sister Dorothy at Racedown, Dorsetshire; to be near 
Coleridge he removed to Alfoxden 1797; went to Continent 
1798; returned to England 1799, and settled at Grasmere in 
the lake district; married Mary Hutchison 1802; settled at 
Allan Bank 1808; removed to Grasmere 1811. Appointed 
distributer of stamps 1813, and settled at Rydal Mount; 
traveled in Scotland 1814 and 1832; on the Continent 1820 
and 1837. Given a pension of £300 by Peel 1842; became poet 
laureate 1843. Some of his well-known poems are “The 
Excursion,’ “Tintern Abbey,” “Yarrow Revisited,’ “The 
Prelude,” “Intimations of Immortality,” and “We Are 
Seven.” To the Men of Kent, 70. 


Y 


Younc, Epwarp. Born at Upham, near Winchester, Eng., June, 
1683; died Apr. 5, 1765. He was educated at Oxford, and 
became rector of Welwyn in 1730. His chief poetical work 
is “Night Thoughts.” Hope, 52; Joy Calls for Two, 199; 
Life’s End, 155; Riches, 104. 


257 








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